Excuse

I too have sufferd: yet I know     She is not cold, though she seems so:     She is not cold, she is not light;     But our ignoble souls lack might.     She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,     While we for hopeless passion die;     Yet she could love, those eyes declare,     Were but men nobler than they are.     Eagerly once her gracious ken     Was turnd upon the sons of men.     But light the serious visage grew,     She lookd, and smiled, and saw them through.     Our petty souls, our strutting wits,     Our labourd puny passion-fits,     Ah, may she scorn them still, till we     Scorn them as bitterly as she!     Yet oh, that Fate would let her see     One of some worthier race than we;     One for whose sake she once might prove     How deeply she who scorns can love.     His eyes be like the starry lights,     His voice like sounds of summer nights,     In all his lovely mien let pierce     The magic of the universe.     And she to him will reach her hand,     And gazing in his eyes will, stand,     And know her friend, and weep for glee,     And cry, Long, long Ive lookd for thee.,     Then will she weep, with smiles, till then,     Coldly she mocks the sons of men.     Till then her lovely eyes maintain     Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain.