 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
16
I LOVE THEE.
I love thee!
Not for thy glorious eye's unrivalled brightness,—
Not for the gentle grace thy features wear,
Not for thy marble brow's unsullied whiteness,
Not for the shining ripples of thy hair,—
Not for thy lips, like rosebuds half unfolded,
Not for thy flute-like voice's silver tone,
Not for thy rounded form, in beauty moulded,—
Nay, not for these I love thee, dearest one!
Not for thy glorious eye's unrivalled brightness,—
Not for the gentle grace thy features wear,
Not for thy marble brow's unsullied whiteness,
Not for the shining ripples of thy hair,—
Not for thy lips, like rosebuds half unfolded,
Not for thy flute-like voice's silver tone,
Not for thy rounded form, in beauty moulded,—
Nay, not for these I love thee, dearest one!
For the warm love-light in thy dark eye shining,
For the strange charm that makes thy presence bliss,
For thy pure soul, a lofty faith enshrining,
For thy true heart of trusting tenderness,—
For thy kind words, which cheer the stricken-hearted,
For thy bright smile, the same through good and ill,
For the low prayer that blessed me when we parted,
For the sweet hope that glads my spirit still,
I love thee!
For the strange charm that makes thy presence bliss,
For thy pure soul, a lofty faith enshrining,
For thy true heart of trusting tenderness,—
For thy kind words, which cheer the stricken-hearted,
For thy bright smile, the same through good and ill,
For the low prayer that blessed me when we parted,
For the sweet hope that glads my spirit still,
I love thee!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |