I love a maid, a mystic maid,

  Whose form no eyes but mine can see;

She comes in light, she comes in shade,

  And beautiful in both is she.

Her shape in dreams I oft behold,

  And oft she whispers in my ear

Such words as when to others told,

  Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;

Then guess, guess, who she,

The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,

  Come o'er me in my darkest ways;

And feel as if her voice, even now,

  Were echoing far off my lays.

There is no scene of joy or woe

  But she doth gild with influence bright;

And shed o'er all so rich a glow

  As makes even tears seem full of light:

Then guess, guess, who she,

The lady of my love, may be.