A blush is no language: only a dubious flag-signal which may
mean either of two contradictories.

A blush is no language: only a dubious flag-signal which may
mean either of two contradictories.

I have marked
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
read more

I have marked
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness beat away those blushes,
And in her eye there hath appeared a fire
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth.

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring
To revel read more

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring
To revel in the roses.

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of read more

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

The blush is beautiful, but it is sometimes convenient.
[It., Bello e il rossore, ma e incommodo qualche volta.]

The blush is beautiful, but it is sometimes convenient.
[It., Bello e il rossore, ma e incommodo qualche volta.]

An Arab, by his earnest gaze,
Has clothed a lovely maid with blushes;
A smile within his read more

An Arab, by his earnest gaze,
Has clothed a lovely maid with blushes;
A smile within his eyelids plays
And into words his longing gushes.

We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept; we never blushed before.

We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept; we never blushed before.

The rising blushes, which her cheek o'er-spread,
Are opening roses in the lily's bed.

The rising blushes, which her cheek o'er-spread,
Are opening roses in the lily's bed.

Where now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with read more

Where now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,
To mask their brows and hide their infamy;
But I alone, alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with show'rs of silver brine,
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.