A Woman’s Soul.

I am no painter, yet some fair plain,1
Or bloom-grown, fragrant country lane,2
Will fill my soul with craving pain3
With vain desire for the subtle skill4
To give the world the field and hill,5
The sunlit sea, the whirling mill6
That dashes its wheel in foam.7
I am no poet, yet fancies fly8
(Perchance the dreams of time gone by)9
Through heart and brain. I softly sigh,10
And think, “ Had I but the pow’r to tell11
Of life’s lost youth, and love’s sweet spell,12
Those themes upon my pen should dwell13
In words that would never die.”14