THE ONE

You are that belovèd thing

Which, through all my seeking

In silence or in speaking,

I would find, and finding sing!

You are that belovèd air

Which, o'er all the chiming

Of music or of rhyming,

Reconciles my long despair.

You are that belovèd sight

Which, beyond life's fairest

Or rich beauty's rarest,

Fills my heart with true delight.

You are that belovèd place

Where, past all the portals

To the pomp of mortals,

Love perceives the courts of grace,

And what splendors more,— ah, well!

Though I often fashion

Songs of praise and passion,

Now — I look — but cannot tell!