Poem by James Russell Lowell

The Unlovely

    The pretty things that others wear
  Look strange and out of place on me,
  I never seem dressed tastefully,
    Because I am not fair;
  And, when I would most pleasing seem,
  And deck myself with joyful care,
  I find it is an idle dream,
    Because I am not fair.

    If I put roses in my hair,
  They bloom as if in mockery;
  Nature denies her sympathy,
    Because I am not fair;
  Alas! I have a warm, true heart,
  But when I show it people stare;
  I must forever dwell apart,
    Because I am not fair.

    I am least happy being where
  The hearts of others are most light,
  And strive to keep me out of sight,
    Because I am not fair;
  The glad ones often give a glance,
  As I am sitting lonely there,
  That asks me why I do not dance--
    Because I am not fair.

    And if to smile on them I dare,
  For that my heart with love runs o'er,
  They say: "What is she laughing for?"--
    Because I am not fair;
  Love scorned or misinterpreted--
  It is the hardest thing to bear;
  I often wish that I were dead,
    Because I am not fair.

    In joy or grief I must not share,
  For neither smiles nor tears on me
  Will ever look becomingly,
    Because I am not fair;
  Whole days I sit alone and cry,
  And in my grave I wish I were--
  Yet none will weep me if I die,
    Because I am not fair.

    My grave will be so lone and bare,
  I fear to think of those dark hours,
  For none will plant it o'er with flowers,
    Because I am not fair;
  They will not in the summer come
  And speak kind words above me there;
  To me the grave will be no home,
    Because I am not fair.

1. Fancies about a Rosebud, Pressed in an Old Copy of Spenser
2. My Friend, Adown Life's Valley, Hand in Hand
3. Sayest Thou, Most Beautiful, That Thou Wilt Wear
4. “No More But So?”
5. The Lover

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