If God should say to me, Behold!—
Yea, who shall doubt?—
They who love others more than me,
Shall I not turn, as oft of old,
My face from them and cast them out?
So let it be with thee, behold!—
I should not care, for in your face
Is all God's grace.
If God should say to me, Behold!—
Is it not well?—
They who have other gods than me,
Shall I not bid them, as of old,
Depart into the outer Hell?
So let it be with thee, behold!—
I should not care, for in your eyes
Is Paradise.
The Blind God.
I know not if she be unkind,
If she have faults I do not care;
Search through the world—where will you find
A face like hers, a form, a mind?
I love her to despair.
If she be cruel, cruelty
Is a great virtue, I will swear;
If she be proud—then pride must be
Akin to Heaven's divinest three—
I love her to despair.
Why speak to me of that and this?
All you may say weighs not a hair!
In her,—whose lips I may not kiss,—
To me naught but perfection is!—
I love her to despair.