  I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose, Thy hair ripple of sunbeams, and thine eyes Violets, April-rich and sprung of God. My barren gaze can never know what throes Such boons of beauty waken, tho' I rise Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope That light will pierce my useless lids—then grope Till night, blind as the worm within his clod. Yet unto me thou are not less divine, I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hid Within the twilight breeze; I smoothe thy hair And understand how slipping hours may twine Themselves into eternity: yea, rid Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem To see all beauty God Himself may dream. Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care? |
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