Sonnet XLIII

What sayest thou, to-night, poor soul so drear,
What sayest--heart erewhile engulfed in gloom,
To the very lovely, very chaste, and very dear,
Whose god-like look hath made thee to re-bloom?

To her, with pride we chant an echoing Hymn,
For nought can touch the sweetness of her sway;
Her flesh ethereal as the seraphim,
Her eyes with robe of light our souls array.

And be it in the night, or solitude,
Among the streets or 'mid the multitude,
Her shadow, torch-like, dances in the air,

And murmurs, "I, the Beautiful proclaim--
That for my sake, alone ye love the Fair;
I am the Guardian Angel, Muse and Dame!"