Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Person
When I bought you for a song,
Years ago--Lord knows how long!--
I was struck--I may be wrong--
By your features,
And--a something in your air
That I couldn’t quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow creatures.
In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me--’twas all the same--
Whoe’er drew you;
For your face I can’t forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.
Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, YOU scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You’re the last thing I recall
With contentment.
It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.
If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain.
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.
Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But OUR ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You’re the only one I ever
Really cared for!
And you’ll still be hanging there
When we’re both the worse for wear,
And the silver’s on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
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