And then I murmur, "Surely God Delighteth here to dwell; This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well;" But, when I hear the creed which saith, This church alone is His, I feel within my soul that He Hath purer shrines than this. IV. For his is not the builded church, Nor organ-shaken dome; In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid. V. His church is universal Love, And whoso dwells therein Shall need no customed sacrifice To wash away his sin; And music in its aisles shall swell, Of lives upright and true, Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps Down-quivering through the blue. VI. They shall not ask a litany, The souls that worship there, But every look shall be a hymn, And every word a prayer; Their service shall be written bright In calm and holy eyes, And every day from fragrant hearts Fit incense shall arise. THE UNLOVELY. The pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair; And, when I would most pleasing seem, And deck myself with joyful care, I find it is an idle dream, Because I am not fair. If I put roses in my hair, They bloom as if in mockery; Nature denies her sympathy, Because I am not fair; Alas! I have a warm, true heart, But when I show it people stare; I must forever dwell apart, Because I am not fair. I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light, And strive to keep me out of sight, Because I am not fair; The glad ones often give a glance, As I am sitting lonely there, That asks me why I do not dance-- Because I am not fair. And if to smile on them I dare, For that my heart with love runs o'er, They say: "What is she laughing for?"-- Because I am not fair; Love scorned or misinterpreted-- It is the hardest thing to bear; I often wish that I were dead, Because I am not fair. In joy or grief I must not share, For neither smiles nor tears on me Will ever look becomingly, Because I am not fair; Whole days I sit alone and cry, And in my grave I wish I were-- Yet none will weep me if I die, Because I am not fair. My grave will be so lone and bare, I fear to think of those dark hours, For none will plant it o'er with flowers, Because I am not fair; They will not in the summer come And speak kind words above me there; To me the grave will be no home, Because I am not fair. LOVE-SONG.