The Praises of Her Beauty
B. Fairchild
The praises of her beauty I shall sing,
Yea, though her beauty be my suffering!
Lo! one to me hath come and softly said,
"O thou who with Love's sorrowing hast bled,
"Rise! Here is Life's great music, Life's guitar,
Luring thy soul to some exquisite star!"
And I have said, "How can my poor heart sing,
Since I have left Love's sharp and ceaseless sting?"