"Some innocent heart whose pulse's tone
Should beat in echo of mine own,
Where I might reign and reign alone."
"All this, and more, thy love might win,"
My spirit urged, "poor Child of Sin,
That sickenest in this rude world's din.
"Love is a way-side plant: go forth
And pluck—love has no thorns for worth—
The blossom from its place of birth.
"Perchance, on thee may Beauty's queen,
And Fortune's, look, with smiling mien—
With eyes, whose lids hold love between."
"Spirit, I am of little worth,"
Said I—"an erring child of earth:
Yet fain would own a happy hearth.
"Mere beauty, though it drowns my soul
With sunshine, may not be my goal;
And love despises gold's control.
"Better the riches of the mind—
A spirit toward the spheres inclined—
A heart that veers not with the wind.
"She might be beautiful, and gold
Might clasp her in its ruddy fold—
Have lands and tenements to hold:
"She might be poor—it were the same
If lofty, or of lowly name,
If famous, or unknown to fame:
"But she must feel the brotherhood
I feel for man—the love of good;—
Life is at best an interlude,