Mathilde Blind

* * *

What magic is there in thy mien
   What sorcery in thy smile,
Which charms away all cark and care,
Which turns the foul days into fair,
   And for a little while
Changes this disenchanted scene
From the sere leaf into the green,
   Transmuting with love's golden wand
   This beggared life to fairyland?

My heart goes forth to thee, oh friend,
   As some poor pilgrim to a shrine,
A pilgrim who has come from far
To seek his spirit's folding star,
   And sees the taper shine;
The goal to which his wanderings tend,
Where want and weariness shall end,
   And kneels ecstatically blest
   Because his heart hath entered rest.