James Russell Lowell

* * *

  Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair
  And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee,
  How should I feel a cloud of earthly care,
  If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me?
  O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare!
  That blossom'st brightest in extremest need,
  Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed
  Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air,
  And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts,
  Who can be little even in the light
  Of thy meek holiness--while souls more great
  Are left to wander in a starless night,
  Praying unheard--and yet the hardest parts
  Befit those best who best can cope with Fate.