Not as all other women
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings has she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;
No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly
That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed m her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her
To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is:
God made her so,
And deeds of week-day
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to
That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and
Her life loth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not
Ne'er made less beautiful the
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in
The spring-time of her childish
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life bath
For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;
It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
