Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Person
By Bret Harte (Francis)
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 couldnt 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
Whoeer drew you;
For your face I cant 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,
Youre 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,
Youre the only one I ever
Really cared for!
And youll still be hanging there
When were both the worse for wear,
And the silvers 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!