2Who is the maid my spirit seeks

3Through cold reproof, and slanders blight –

4'Has she loves roses on her cheeks?

5Is her’s an eye of calm delight?

6No – wan and sunk with midnight prayer

7Are the pale looks of her I love

8And if by times a light be there

9That light is kindled from above.–

10I choose not her mine hearts elect

11’Mongst those that seek their Makers shrine

12In gems and garlands proudly decked

13As if themselves were things divine.–

14No, heaven but faintly warms the breast

15That beats beneath a broidered veil.

16And she, who comes in glittering dress

17To mourn her frailty – yet is frail.–

18Not so the faded form I prize

19And love because her bloom is gone

20The glory of those sainted eyes

21Is all the dress her brow puts on.–

22But ne’er was beauties bloom so bright,

23So touching as that forms decay

24Which as the altars wavering light

25In holy lustre fades away.–

26Harriet Beecher Stowe.