| |
| IF, as they tell in stories old, | |
| The waters of Pactolus roll’d | |
| Over a sand of shifting gold; | |
| |
| If ever there were fairies, such | |
| As those that charm the child so much, | 5 |
| With jewels growing ’neath their touch; | |
| |
| If, in the wine-cup’s sweet deceit, | |
| There lies a secret pleasant cheat, | |
| That turns to beauty all we meet; | |
| |
| The stream, the fairy, and the wine, | 10 |
| In the first love of youth combine | |
| To make its object seem divine. | |
| |
| No golden sand of fabl’d river, | |
| No jewel glittering for ever, | |
| No wine-born vision’s melting quiver, | 15 |
| |
| In vivid glory can compare | |
| With that which we ourselves prepare | |
| To throw round that we fancy fair. | |
| |
| Never such beauty glittered yet, | |
| In golden beams of suns that set | 20 |
| On cupola and minaret. | |
| |
| Never such beauty met men’s eyes | |
| In silver light of moons that rise | |
| O’er lonely lakes ’neath tropic skies. | |
| |
| The world holds nothing of such worth, | 25 |
| There ’s nothing half so fair on earth, | |
| As that to which the heart gives birth: | |
| |
| External beauties pall and fade; | |
| But that which my own soul hath made, | |
| To my conception, knows no shade. | 30 |
| |
| To every ark there comes a dove, | |
| To every heart from heaven above | |
| Is sent a beauty born of love. | |
| |
| The moonlit lake, the waving trees, | |
| It is the eye which looks on these | 35 |
| That makes the loveliness it sees. | |
| |
| Out of myself the beauty grows, | |
| Out of myself the beauty flows | |
| That decks the petals of the rose. | |
| |
| So, when at Ada’s feet I lay, | 40 |
| And saw her glorious as the day, | |
| ’Twas my own heart that lent the ray. | |
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