Who is the maid my spirit seeks

Through cold reproof, and slanders blight –

Has she loves roses on her cheeks?

Is her’s an eye of calm delight?

No – wan and sunk with midnight prayer

Are the pale looks of her I love

And if by times a light be there

That light is kindled from above.

I choose not her mine hearts elect

’Mongst those that seek their Makers shrine

In gems and garlands proudly decked

As if themselves were things divine.

No, heaven but faintly warms the breast

That beats beneath a broidered veil.

And she, who comes in glittering dress

To mourn her frailty – yet is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize

And love because her bloom is gone

The glory of those sainted eyes

Is all the dress her brow puts on.

But ne’er was beauties bloom so bright,

So touching as that forms decay

Which as the altars wavering light

In holy lustre fades away.

Harriet Beecher Stowe.