How strange it is that thine ethereal grace
Should make me sorry by its loveliness,
For surely beauty is designed to bless
Those hours of youth that have so short a race,
And yet the memory of some old distress
Shadows me over when I see thy face,
And yearning ever for one swift embrace
Has tinged my joy in thee with bitterness.

The young smiles flashing brightly free and fair,
The laughing stars that in thy deep eyes shine,—
It is not love for me that lights them there,
I see their beauty, but they are not mine.
Thy loveliness is joy poisoned with pain;
Rapture to love, torment to love in vain.