Poems (Jackson)/To an Unknown Lady
TO AN UNKNOWN LADY.
There lived a lady who was lovelier Than anything that my poor skill may paint,— Though I would follow round the world till faintI fell, for just one little look at her.Who said she seemed like this or that did err: Like her dear self she was, alone,—no taint From touch of mortal or of earth; blest saintSerene, with many a faithful worshipper! There is no poet's poesy would not,When laid against the whiteness of her meek, Proud, solemn face, make there a pitiful blot.It is so strange that I can never speak Of her without a tear. O, I forgot!This surely may fall blameless on that cheek!
From The Riddle of Lovers, Scribner's Monthly for June, 1873.
KNOW a lady-no, I do not know Her face, her voice; I do not know her name: And yet such sudden, subtle knowledge cameTo me of her one day, that I am slowTo think that if I met her I should go Amiss in greeting her. Such sweet, proud shame In every look would tell her hidden fameWhose poet lover, singing, loves her so That all his songs unconsciously repeatThe fact of her, no matter what he sings, The color and the tone of her in thingsRemotest, and the presence of her, sweet And strong to hold him lowest at her feet,When most he soars on highest sunlit wings.I bless thee, Lady whom I do not know! I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face, And lovely soul, which make this year of graceIn all our land so full of grace to grow;As years were, solemn centuries ago, When lovers knew to set in stateliest place Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no raceDisdained or feared to run, they loved them so. Reading the verses which I know are thine,My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground. I think of many an unnamed saintly shrineI saw in Old World churches, hung around With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful signOf help which sore-pressed souls of men had found.
O sweetest immortality, which pain Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy, Sole immortality which can defyEarth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane,All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain, All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie In shapeless fragments; and to dust again The painter's hand had scarcely turned, beforeHis colors faded. But the poet came,Giving to her from whom he took, his fame, Placing her than the angels little lower, And centuries cannot harm her any moreThan they can pale the stars which heard her name.