The Poetry Corner

The Love Of Loves.

By Madison Julius Cawein

I Have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than any thing Of Earth than rose or violet That Mayday winds and sunbeams bring. Of all we know, past or to come, That beauty holds within its net, She is the high compendium: And yet I have not touched her robe, and still She is more dear than lyric words And music; or than strains that fill The throbbing throats of forest birds. Of all we mean by poetry, That rules the soul and charms the will, She is the deep epitome: And still She is my world; ah, pity me! A dream that flies whom I pursue; Whom all pursue, whoe'er they be, Who toil for art and dare and do. The shadow-love for whom they sigh, The far ideal affinity, For whom they live and gladly die Ah, me!