THE BLIND GOD.

By Madison Julius Cawein

I know not if she be unkind,

If she have faults I do not care;

Search through the world — where will you find

A face like hers, a form, a mind?

I love her to despair.

If she be cruel, cruelty

Is a great virtue, I will swear;

If she be proud — then pride must be

Akin to Heaven's divinest three —

I love her to despair.

Why speak to me of that and this?

All you may say weighs not a hair!

In her,— whose lips I may not kiss,—

To me naught but perfection is!—

I love her to despair.