Beauty

And every thought whose being was a strife

Each in its silent chamber sank to rest;

I was not, save it were a thought of thee,

The world was but a spot where thou hadst trod,

From every star thy glance seemed fix on me,

Almost I loved thee better than my God.

And still I gaze — but ’t is a holier thought

Than that in which my spirit lived before,

Each star a purer ray of love has caught,

Earth wears a lovelier robe than then it wore,