To her whose name, <br />With its sweet sibilant sound like sudden showers <br />Splashing the grass and flowers, <br />Hath set my April heart aflame; <br /> <br />To her whose face, <br />The flower and crown of all created things, <br />Dearer than even Spring's, <br />Hath been to me a sacrament of grace; <br /> <br />Whose luminous mind, <br />Stored with all gladness of the earth and sky, <br />Hath lightened my sad eye <br />And made it wise in love which erst was blind; <br /> <br />Whose voice of pleasure, <br />Calling to joys as a blithe wedding bell <br />When ringers ring it well, <br />Hath tuned my soul to its own happy measure; <br /> <br />Whose blessed hand, <br />With its white mystery of fingers five, <br />Each one a soul alive, <br />Hath taught me truths no angels understand; <br /> <br />Whose arms within, <br />Should she once clasp me to her very heart, <br />God knoweth we should not part <br />But live for aye in Heaven's own bliss divine; <br /> <br />To her, alas, <br />Who is so near, yet standeth still so far, <br />Seeing the mortal bar <br />Betwixt us ever which we cannot pass, <br /> <br />These lines I send <br />With my heart's tears to--night beseeching her, <br />Of her dear love more dear, <br />To be no less to me my sweetest soul and friend.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-her-whose-name/
