You are that belovèd thing
Which, through all my seeking
In silence or in speaking,
I would find, and finding sing!
You are that belovèd air
Which, o'er all the chiming
Of music or of rhyming,
Reconciles my long despair.
You are that belovèd sight
Which, beyond life's fairest
Or rich beauty's rarest,
Fills my heart with true delight.
You are that belovèd place
Where, past all the portals
To the pomp of mortals,
Love perceives the courts of grace,
And what splendors more,— ah, well!
Though I often fashion
Songs of praise and passion,
Now — I look — but cannot tell!