To Somebody

I BLAME not her, because my soul
Is not like her's,—a treasure
Of self-sufficing good,—a whole
Complete in every measure.

I charge her not with cruel pride,
With self-admired disdain;
Too happy she, or to deride,
Or to perceive my pain.

I blame her not—she cannot know.
What she did never prove:
Her streams of sweetness purely flow
Unblended yet with love.

No fault hath she, that I desire
What she cannot conceive;
For she is made of bliss entire,
And I was born to grieve.

And though she hath a thousand wiles,
And, in a moment's space,
As fast as light, a thousand smiles
Come showering from her face,—

Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks,
Her heart securely deems,
Cold as the flashing of the brooks
In the cold moonlight beams.

Her sweet affections, free as wind,
Nor fear, nor craving feel;
No secret hollow hath her mind
For passion to reveal.

Her being's law is gentle bliss,
Her purpose, and her duty;
And quiet joy her loveliness,
And gay delight her beauty.

Then let her walk in mirthful pride,
Dispensing joy and sadness,
By her light spirit fortified
In panoply of gladness.

The joy she gives shall still be her's,
The sorrow shall be mine;
Such debt the earthly heart incurs
That pants for the divine.

But better 'tis to love, I ween,
And die of slow despair,
Than die, and never to have seen
A maid so lovely fair.
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