SHE hath no beauty in her face,
Unless the chastened sweetness there
And meek long-suffering yield a grace
To make her mournful features fair.
Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young,
She roams through dim unsheltered ways;
Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue,
Brings music to her sober days.
At best, her skies are clouded o'er,
And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,
Or feels on some tempestuous shore
The storm-waves lash her naked feet!
Where'er she strays, or musing stands
By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,
We see her pale, half-tremulous hands
Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart.
Within, a secret pain she bears,
A pain too deep to feel the balm
An April spirit finds in tears,--
Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!
Yet in her passionless strength supreme,
Despair beyond her pathway flies,
Awed by the softly steadfast beam
Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!
Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem
Touched by fine wafts of holier air,
As those who in some mystic dream
Talk with the angels unaware!
