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George Gordon Byron - To Mary, On Receiving Her Picture
Work rating: Medium

This faint resemblance of thy charms,
    (Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
    Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here, I can trace the locks of gold
    Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty`s mould,
    The lips, which made me Beauty`s slave.

Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,
    Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter`s art defy,
    And bid him from the task retire.

Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
    But where`s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
    Like Luna o`er the ocean playing?

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
    Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
    Save her who plac`d thee next my heart.

She plac`d it, sad, with needless fear,
    Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
    Held every sense in fast control.

Thro` hours, thro` years, thro` time, `twill cheer--
    My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life`s last conflict `twill appear,
    And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
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