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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

William Johnson Cory (1823–1892)


SOMEWHERE beneath the sun,—

These quivering heart-strings prove it,—

Somewhere there must be one

Made for this soul to move it:

Some one that hides her sweetness

From neighbors whom she slights,

Nor can attain completeness,

Nor give her heart its rights;

Some one whom I could court

With no great change of manner,

Still holding reason’s fort,

Though waving fancy’s banner:

A lady, not so queenly

As to disdain my hand,

Yet born to smile serenely

Like those that rule the land,—

Noble, but not too proud;

With soft hair simply folded,

And bright face crescent-browed,

And throat by Muses molded;

And eyelids lightly falling

On little glistening seas,

Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,

Though stirred by every breeze;

Swift voice, like flight of dove

Through minster arches floating,

With sudden turns, when love

Gets overnear to doting;

Keen lips, that shape soft sayings

Like crystals of the snow,

With pretty half-betrayings

Of things one may not know;

Fair hand, whose touches thrill

Like golden rod of wonder,

Which Hermes wields at will

Spirit and flesh to sunder;

Light foot to press the stirrup

In fearlessness and glee,

Or dance till finches chirrup

And stars sink to the sea.

Forth, Love, and find this maid,

Wherever she be hidden:

Speak, Love, be not afraid,

But plead as thou art bidden;

And say that he who taught thee

His yearning want and pain,

Too dearly, dearly bought thee

To part with thee in vain.