perfect woman

william wordsworth’un siiri.

she was a phantom of delight
when first she gleam’d upon my sight;
a lovely apparition, sent
to be a moment’s ornament;
her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
but all things else about her drawn
from maytime and the cheerful dawn;
a dancing shape, an image gay,
to haunt, to startle, and waylay.

i saw her upon nearer view,
a spirit, yet a woman too!
her household motions light and free,
and steps of virgin liberty;
a countenance in which did meet
sweet records, promises as sweet;
a creature not too bright or good
for human nature’s daily food;
for transient sorrows, simple wiles,
praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

and now i see with eye serene
the very pulse of the machine;
a being breathing thoughtful breath,
a traveller between life and death;
the reason firm, the temperate will,
endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
a perfect woman, nobly plann’d,
to warm, to comfort, and command;
and yet a spirit still, and bright
with something of angelic light.