A FACE

A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers

  Painted upon a background of pale gold,

Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers!

  No shade encroaching on the matchless mould

Of those two lips, which should be opening soft

  In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,

For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft

  Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staffs

Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss

  And capture ’twixt the lips apart for this.

Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,

  How it should waver on the pale gold ground

Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

  I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts

Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb

  Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:

But these are only massed there, I should think,

  Waiting to see some wonder momently

Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky

  (That’s the pale ground you’d see this sweet face by),

All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye

  Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

John Everett Millais MRS COVENTRY PATMORE Oil on panel. 1851 Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Джон Эверетт Миллес МИССИС КОВЕНТРИ ПАТМОР. Дерево, масло. 1851 Музей Фицуильяма, Кембридж