Дора Сигерсон Шортер (Dora Sigerson Shorter)

Unknown Ideal

Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?
   I hear it speak.
Where is the shore will gratify my quest,
   Show what I seek?
Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice,
   With halting tongue;
No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice
   Your groves among.

Whose is the loveliness I know is by,
   Yet cannot place?
Is it perfection of the sea or sky,
   Or human face?
Not yours, my pencil, to delineate
   The splendid smile!
Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate
   That glows the while.

Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing
   On unknown ways?
Whose are the lips that only part to sing
   Through all my days?
Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes
   Or find that shore
That will not let me rest, nor satisfies
   For evermore.

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