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!