 | Early poems |  |
[VIII. Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair]
Might I but be beloved, and, O most fairAnd perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee,
How should I feel a cloud of earthly care,
If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me?
O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare!
That blossom'st brightest in extremest need,
Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed
Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air,
And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts,
Who can be little even in the light
Of thy meek holiness—while souls more great
Are left to wander in a starless night,
Praying unheard—and yet the hardest parts
Befit those best who best can cope with Fate.
| Early poems | |