The Love Of Loves

I have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than anything Of earth--than rose or violet That winds of May and sunbeams bring. Of all we know, past or to come, That beauty holds within its net, She is the high compendium: And yet--

I have not touched her robe, and still She is more dear than lyric words And music; or than strains that fill The throbbing throats of forest birds. Of all we mean by poetry, That rules the soul and charms the will, She is the deep epitome: And still--

She is my world: ah, pity me! A dream that flies whom I pursue: Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be, Who toil for Art and dare and do. The shadow-love for whom they sigh, The far ideal affinity, For whom they live and gladly die-- Ah me!