To A Belle
All that thou art, I thrillingly
And sensibly do feel;
For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,
And my heart is not of steel;
I meet thee in the festal hall -
I turn thee in the dance -
And I wait, as would a worshipper,
The giving of thy glance.
Thy beauty is as undenied
As the beauty of a star;
And thy heart beats just as equally,
Whate’er thy praises are;
And so long without a parallel
Thy loveliness hath shone,
That, follow’d like the tided moon,
Thou mov’st as calmly on.
Thy worth I, for myself, have seen -
I know that thou art leal;
Leal to a woman’s gentleness,
And thine own spirit’s weal;
Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,
And holier than gay;
And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,
Where angel fingers play.
I know all this – I feel all this –
And my heart believes it true;
And my fancy hath often borne me on,
As a lover’s fancies do;
And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,
And would love with its human all,
And it waits for a fetter that’s sweet to wear,
And would bound to a silken thrall.
But it loves not thee.– It would sooner bind
Its thoughts to the open sky;
It would worship as soon a familiar star,
That is bright to every eye.
’Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all -
The wave of the beautiful sea -
’Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,
To hope for the love of thee.
But wert thou lowly– yet leal as now;
Rich but in thine own mind;
Humble– in all but the queenly brow;
And to thine own glory blind -
Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,
And worshippers leave thy shrine -
My love were, then, but a gift for thee,
And my strong deep heart were thine.
