V.

When first I saw her, not of earth, But heavenly both in grief and mirth, I thought her; she did seem As fair and full of mystery, As bodiless, as forms we see In the rememberings of a dream; A moon-lit mist, a strange, dim light, Circled her spirit from my sight;-- Each day more beautiful she grew, More earthly every day, Yet that mysterious, moony hue Faded not all away; She has a sister's sympathy With all the wanderers of the sky, But most I've seen her bosom stir When moonlight round her fell, For the mild moon it loveth her, She loveth it as well, And of their love perchance this grace Was born into her wondrous face. I cannot tell how it may be, For both, methinks, can scarce be true, Still, as she earthly grew to me, She grew more heavenly too; She seems one born in Heaven With earthly feelings, For, while unto her soul are given More pure revealings Of holiest love and truth, Yet is the mildness of her eyes Made up of quickest sympathies, Of kindliness and ruth; So, though some shade of awe doth stir Our souls for one so far above us, We feel secure that she will love us, And cannot keep from loving her. She is a poem, which to me In speech and look is written bright, And to her life's rich harmony Doth ever sing itself aright; Dear, glorious creature! With eyes so dewy bright, And tenderest feeling Itself revealing In every look and feature, Welcome as a homestead light To one long-wandering in a clouded night, O, lovelier for her woman's weakness, Which yet is strongly mailed In armor of courageous meekness And faith that never failed!