  Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, 5And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; And sweet they are as any tone 10Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot 15That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, 20Is low-esteemÈd in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings 25To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Nor hath she ever chanced to know 30That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 35Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room 40For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, 45And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, 50Sweet homes wherein to live and die. |
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