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.