For love is blind but with the fleshly eye, That so its inner sight may be more clear; And outward shows of beauty only so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant's steps: Fine natures need them not: their earnest look Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise, And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and loved. TO PERDITA, SINGING Thy voice is like a fountain, Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting, Ever sinking, Without thinking, To that brimful heart of thine. Every sad and happy feeling, Thou hast had in bygone years, Through thy lips comes stealing, stealing, Clear and low; 10 All thy smiles and all thy tears In thy voice awaken, And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, From their teaching it hath taken: Feeling and music move together, Like a swan and shadow ever Floating on a sky-blue river In a day of cloudless weather. It hath caught a touch of sadness, Yet it is not sad; 20 It hath tones of clearest gladness, Yet it is not glad; A dim, sweet twilight voice it is Where to-day's accustomed blue Is over-grayed with memories, With starry feelings quivered through. Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in sunshine bright, And I never weary counting Its clear droppings, lone and single, 30 Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light.