Patience

She hath no beauty in her face Unless the chastened sweetness there, And meek long-suffering, yield a grace To make her mournful features fair:—

Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young, She roams through dim, unsheltered ways; Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue Brings music to her sombre days:—

At best her skies are clouded o'er, And oft she fronts the stinging sleet, Or feels on some tempestuous shore The storm-waves lash her naked feet.

Where'er she strays, or musing stands By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart, We see her pale, half-tremulous hands Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart!

Within, a secret pain she bears,— pain too deep to feel the balm An April spirit finds in tears; Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!

Yet in her passionate strength supreme, Despair beyond her pathway flies, Awed by the softly steadfast beam Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!

Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem Touched by fine wafts of holier air; As those who in some mystic dream Talk with the angels unaware!