Classic Poem

Where dwelleth Love? oh, tell me where!
In some dim region of delight,
Beyond the dayspring's golden bars,
Above the uttermost bright stars,
Far in the azure Infinite?
Oh, no! not there.

Is it in lands the poets know,
Where lovely shapes go up and down
Through vaulted glooms and flickering gleams,
In the pale, pictured hall of dreams,
To fairy music, faintly blown?
Oh, no! not so.

Dwelt she in happy Arcady,
With the Saturnian race of men,
Ere yet with wisdom, war and gold,
The human heart grew sad and cold,
Then fled she back to heaven again?
Not fled is she.

Or sole in Languedoc the fair,
In brave, bright days of chivalry,
When good knights fought on field and tower,
And troubadours, in court and bower,
Sang lays of Belle Dame Sans Merci?
Not only there.

Or slumbers she in palmy dells
Of some lone, undiscovered isle,
With folded hands and lidded eyes,
Beneath dusk, leaf-woven canopies
That shed soft dew of sound the while?
Not there she dwells.

Ah, no! hers is no hidden shrine;
She bides in ways of stress and strife;
Her lips are on the brow of pain,
Her strong hand lightens labor's chain,
She makes of this hard, bitter life
A thing divine.

The wrongs of change, the wounds of time,
The world's disdain, she will endure;
She is not bribed by gold or fame,
Nor daunted by the taint of shame;
Whate'er betide she standeth sure,
With trust sublime.

She comes in various disguise
Of rustic garb or royal grace,
But whatso be her name or state,
Thy heart will know her, soon or late,
When she unveils her splendid face
And glowing eyes.