A love that in its object findeth not
All grace and beauty, and enough to sate
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good
Found there, sees but the Heaven-implanted types
Of good and beauty in the soul of man,
And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,
A family-likeness to its chosen one,
That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. 
For love is blind but with the fleshly eye,
That so its inner sight may be more clear;
And outward shows of beauty only so
Are needful at the first, as is a hand
To guide and to uphold an infant’s steps: 
Fine natures need them not:  their earnest look
Pierces the body’s mask of thin disguise,
And beauty ever is to them revealed,
Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay,
With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,
Yearning to be but understood and loved.

TO PERDITA, SINGING

Thy voice is like a fountain,
  Leaping up in clear moonshine;
Silver, silver, ever mounting,
        Ever sinking,
        Without thinking,
  To that brimful heart of thine. 
Every sad and happy feeling,
Thou hast had in bygone years,
Through thy lips comes stealing, stealing,
        Clear and low; 10
All thy smiles and all thy tears
  In thy voice awaken,
  And sweetness, wove of joy and woe,
    From their teaching it hath taken: 
Feeling and music move together,
Like a swan and shadow ever
Floating on a sky-blue river
In a day of cloudless weather.

It hath caught a touch of sadness,
        Yet it is not sad; 20
It hath tones of clearest gladness,
        Yet it is not glad;
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is
  Where to-day’s accustomed blue
Is over-grayed with memories,
  With starry feelings quivered through.

  Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in sunshine bright,
  And I never weary counting
Its clear droppings, lone and single, 30
Or when in one full gush they mingle,
  Shooting in melodious light.

  Thine is music such as yields
  Feelings of old brooks and fields,
  And, around this pent-up room,
  Sheds a woodland, free perfume;
    Oh, thus forever sing to me! 
        Oh, thus forever! 
The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, 39
  Flowing like an emerald river,
  And the bright blue skies above! 
  Oh, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
  Into the bosom of my love,—­
  The sunshine and the merriment,
  The unsought, evergreen content,
    Of that never cold time,
  The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
    Through and through the old time! 
  Peace sits within thine eyes,
  With white hands crossed in joyful rest, 50
While, through thy lips and face, arise
The melodies from out thy breast;
      She sits and sings,