I. Herself

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring; A bodily beauty more acceptable Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell; To be an essence more environing Than wine's drained juice; a music ravishing More than the passionate pulse of Philomel;-- To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell That is the flower of life:--how strange a thing!

How strange a thing to be what Man can know But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow; Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,-- The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.