Belovèd, if the Moon could weep

Belovèd, if the Moon could weep,
Or if the Sun could see
How all these weltering alleys keep
Their outcast treasury!

O bitter, bitter-sweet!--
Beauty of babyhood,--
Earth's wistful uttermost of good
Flung out upon the street;
Fouled, even as the highways would,
With mirk and mire and bruise;
The cheek more petal-fine
Than rose before a shrine!
Those hands like star-fish in the ooze,
And fingers fain to cling
To any stronger thing!
And smiles, for one triumphal Gift,
Should one lean down, and lift!
And tendril hair;--O in such wise,
With wild lights aureoled,
The morning-glories twine and hold,
In some far paradise!

Oh well and deep, the foul ways keep
Lost treasure hid from day!--
Sun may not see: but only we,
Who look; and look away.