But there danced she, who from the leaven
Of ill preserv’d my heart and wit
All unawares, for she was heaven,
Others at best but fit for it.
One of those lovely things she was
In whose least action there can be
Nothing so transient but it has
An air of immortality.
I mark’d her step, with peace elate,
Her brow more beautiful than morn,
Her sometime look of girlish state
Which sweetly waived its right to scorn
The giddy crowd, she grave the while,
Although, as ’twere beyond her will,
Around her mouth the baby smile,
That she was born with, linger’d still.
Her ball-dress seem’d a breathing mist,
From the fair form exhaled and shed,
Raised in the dance with arm and wrist
All warmth and light, unbraceleted.
Her motion, feeling ’twas beloved,
The pensive soul of tune express’d,
And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,
Came from the flowers in her breast!
Ah, none but I discern’d her looks,
When in the throng she pass’d me by,
For love is like a ghost, and brooks
Only the chosen seer’s eye;
And who but she could e’er divine
The halo and the happy trance,
When her bright arm reposed on mine,
In all the pauses of the dance!