Patience

Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

SHE hath no beauty in her face

Unless the chastened sweetness there,

And meek long-suffering, yield a grace

To make her mournful features fair:—

Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young,

She roams through dim, unsheltered ways;

Nor lover’s vow, nor flatterer’s tongue

Brings music to her sombre days:—

At best her skies are clouded o’er,

And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,

Or feels on some tempestuous shore

The storm-waves lash her naked feet.

Where’er she strays, or musing stands

By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,

We see her pale, half-tremulous hands

Crossed humbly o’er her aching heart!

Within, a secret pain she bears,—

pain too deep to feel the balm

An April spirit finds in tears;

Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!

Yet in her passionate strength supreme,

Despair beyond her pathway flies,

Awed by the softly steadfast beam

Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!

Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem

Touched by fine wafts of holier air;

As those who in some mystic dream

Talk with the angels unaware!