Edgar Fawcett - To T. S. S. lyrics

Seeing thy face, with all thy fluctuant hair Falling in dull-gold opulence from thy brow, Watching thy light-blue eyes, now fired or now Laughterful, or now dim as with despair, I wonder, friend, that it should be God's care To have made at all, what matter when or how, A being so sadly, desolately rare, So beautifully incomplete as thou! O rank black pool, with one star's imaged form! O sweet rich-hearted rose, with rot at core! O summer heaven, half purpled by stern storm! O lily, with one white leaf dipt in gore! O angel-shape, whereover curves and clings The awful imminence of a devil's wings!