Early poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The pretty things that others wear
Look strange and out of place on me,
I never seem dressed tastefully,
Because I am not fair;
And, when I would most pleasing seem,
And deck myself with joyful care,
I find it is an idle dream,
Because I am not fair.

If I put roses in my hair,
They bloom as if in mockery;
Nature denies her sympathy,
Because I am not fair;
Alas! I have a warm, true heart,
But when I show it people stare;
I must forever dwell apart,
Because I am not fair.

I am least happy being where
The hearts of others are most light,
And strive to keep me out of sight,
Because I am not fair;
The glad ones often give a glance,
As I am sitting lonely there,
That asks me why I do not dance—
Because I am not fair.

And if to smile on them I dare,
For that my heart with love runs o'er,
They say: “What is she laughing for?”—
Because I am not fair;
Love scorned or misinterpreted—
It is the hardest thing to bear;
I often wish that I were dead,
Because I am not fair.

In joy or grief I must not share,
For neither smiles nor tears on me
Will ever look becomingly,
Because I am not fair;
Whole days I sit alone and cry,

149

And in my grave I wish I were—
Yet none will weep me if I die,
Because I am not fair.

My grave will be so lone and bare,
I fear to think of those dark hours,
For none will plant it o'er with flowers,
Because I am not fair;
They will not in the summer come
And speak kind words above me there;
To me the grave will be no home,
Because I am not fair.