The Poetry Corner

How Rich That Forehead's Calm Expanse

By William Wordsworth

How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! Waft her to glory, winged Powers, Ere sorrow be renewed, And intercourse with mortal hours Bring back a humbler mood! So looked Cecilia when she drew An Angel from his station; So looked; not ceasing to pursue Her tuneful adoration! But hand and voice alike are still; No sound 'here' sweeps away the will That gave it birth: in service meek One upright arm sustains the cheek, And one across the bosom lies That rose, and now forgets to rise, Subdued by breathless harmonies Of meditative feeling; Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, Through the pure light of female eyes, Their sanctity revealing!