Page:Poems Rice.djvu/57

And mope through a long autumn day;
 A blank you know I call
The time I spend when you're away,
 And this is not quite all:

There's no one calls me beautiful,
 My mirror's silent, too;
How strange this great discovery
 Should have been made by you!
Excuse me, dearest, if I doubt
 Your taste so very pure;
The beautiful I can't find out—
 'Tis very strange, I'm sure.

The world is full of mystery,
 And O! this love is one;
Its strange and wondrous history
 Is scarcely yet begun.
All that we love is beautiful,
 Experience teaches this;
The simplest thing sometimes has caused
 Me ecstasy of bliss.

Now as I wander round, and view
 Each gift, however small
Or trifling, if twas brought by you,
 What joy does it recall!
And every tender word and tone,
 Which did my bosom thrill
Long years ago, now I'm alone,
 They make me happy still.