Let other Bards of Angels sing,
Bright Suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect Thing;
Rejoice that thou art not!
Such if thou wert in all men’s view,
A universal show,
What would my Fancy have to do,
My Feelings to bestow?
The world denies that Thou art fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the Lover is beloved.