 | Poems |  |
TO AN UNKNOWN LADY.
There lived a lady who was lovelier
Than anything that my poor skill may paint,—
Though I would follow round the world till faint
I fell, for just one little look at her.
Who said she seemed like this or that did err:
Like her dear self she was, alone,—no taint
From touch of mortal or of earth; blest saint
Serene, with many a faithful worshipper!
There is no poet's poesy would not,
When laid against the whiteness of her meek,
Proud, solemn face, make there a pitiful blot.
It is so strange that I can never speak
Of her without a tear. O, I forgot!
This surely may fall blameless on that cheek!
From The Riddle of Lovers, Scribner's Monthly for June, 1873.
Than anything that my poor skill may paint,—
Though I would follow round the world till faint
I fell, for just one little look at her.
Who said she seemed like this or that did err:
Like her dear self she was, alone,—no taint
From touch of mortal or of earth; blest saint
Serene, with many a faithful worshipper!
There is no poet's poesy would not,
When laid against the whiteness of her meek,
Proud, solemn face, make there a pitiful blot.
It is so strange that I can never speak
Of her without a tear. O, I forgot!
This surely may fall blameless on that cheek!
From The Riddle of Lovers, Scribner's Monthly for June, 1873.
I know a lady—no, I do not know
Her face, her voice; I do not know her name:
And yet such sudden, subtle knowledge came
To me of her one day, that I am slow
To think that if I met her I should go
Amiss in greeting her. Such sweet, proud shame
In every look would tell her hidden fame
Whose poet lover, singing, loves her so
That all his songs unconsciously repeat
The fact of her, no matter what he sings,
The color and the tone of her in things
Remotest, and the presence of her, sweet
And strong to hold him lowest at her feet,
When most he soars on highest sunlit wings.
Her face, her voice; I do not know her name:
And yet such sudden, subtle knowledge came
To me of her one day, that I am slow
To think that if I met her I should go
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In every look would tell her hidden fame
Whose poet lover, singing, loves her so
That all his songs unconsciously repeat
The fact of her, no matter what he sings,
The color and the tone of her in things
Remotest, and the presence of her, sweet
And strong to hold him lowest at her feet,
When most he soars on highest sunlit wings.
I bless thee, Lady whom I do not know!
I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face,
And lovely soul, which make this year of grace
In all our land so full of grace to grow;
As years were, solemn centuries ago,
When lovers knew to set in stateliest place
Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no race
Disdained or feared to run, they loved them so.
Reading the verses which I know are thine,
My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground.
I think of many an unnamed saintly shrine
I saw in Old World churches, hung around
With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful sign
Of help which sore-pressed souls of men had found.
I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face,
And lovely soul, which make this year of grace
In all our land so full of grace to grow;
As years were, solemn centuries ago,
When lovers knew to set in stateliest place
Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no race
Disdained or feared to run, they loved them so.
Reading the verses which I know are thine,
My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground.
I think of many an unnamed saintly shrine
I saw in Old World churches, hung around
With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful sign
Of help which sore-pressed souls of men had found.
O sweetest immortality, which pain
Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy,
Sole immortality which can defy
Earth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane,
All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain.
All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie
Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie
In shapeless fragments; and to dust again
The painter's hand had scarcely turned, before
His colors faded. But the poet came,
Giving to her from whom he took, his fame,
Placing her than the angels little lower,
And centuries cannot harm her any more
Than they can pale the stars which heard her name.
Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy,
Sole immortality which can defy
Earth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane,
All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain.
All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie
Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie
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The painter's hand had scarcely turned, before
His colors faded. But the poet came,
Giving to her from whom he took, his fame,
Placing her than the angels little lower,
And centuries cannot harm her any more
Than they can pale the stars which heard her name.
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