NOT QUITE FAIR.

UMMER and spring the lovely rose,

Unconscious of its beauty, blows—

Condemn'd, in summer and in spring,

To feel no pride at blossoming.

The hills, the meadows, and the lakes,

Enchant not for their own sweet sakes;

They cannot know, they cannot care

To know, that they are thought so fair.

The rainbow, sunset, cloud, and star,

Dream not how exquisite they are.

All dainty things of earth and sky

Delight us—but they know not why.

But I—a poet—who possess

The power of loving loveliness,

May ask, (and I may ask in vain,)

"Why am I so intensely plain?"