Shapes of Clay

Dear, if I never saw your face again;

If all the music of your voice were mute

As that of a forlorn and broken lute;

If only in my dreams I might attain

The benediction of your touch, how vain

Were Faith to justify the old pursuit

Of happiness, or Reason to confute

The pessimist philosophy of pain.

Yet Love not altogether is unwise,

For still the wind would murmur in the corn,

And still the sun would splendor all the mere;

And I—I could not, dearest, choose but hear

Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes

Shine in the glory of the summer morn.