Aaron Southwick

The Daguerreotype

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A precious little relic
A gift from heart to heart,
Resemblance of a form angelic
Whose lights and shades impart
Emotions felt of old,
Pure, delicate, untold.

I gaze on every feature
The satin cheeks, the eyes -
I cannot see the real creature,
But many beauties rise -
The forehead white and fair,
The puffs of golden hair.

A neck to grace a goddess,
A sable cord of silk
Above a simple checkered bodice,
A throat as white as milk
O'erlaid with jet-black cross,
Contrasting gloss with gloss,

Two arms of alabaster,
So smooth, so plump, so fair!
None molded by an olden master
Could with their form compare!
Ideals opulent
For inspiraton sent.

No sunny smile reposes
Upon that mouth and face,
But faintest blush of pale pink roses
Has left its lovely trace
In silent beauty there
Serene, immobile, rare.

If one desire unspoken,
One touch that I might give,
One earnest look at that dear token,
Could make it wake and live,
Those features now so still
Should move, and speak, and thrill.

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Aaron Southwick