More lovely is my love
     Than yonder dove
        Who flies so free.
Her voice is sweeter far
     Than larks' notes are.
        Ah, dear is she.

She sitteth in the sun,
     And every one
        Smiles up to God—
As when a lily rare
     Springeth for prayer
        Out of the sod.

Her hair enweaves the light
     In woof as bright
        As saints' brows wear.
Her soul through morning eyes
     Explores the skies,
        For truth is there.

Blest with glad thoughts, she waits
     At life's swung gates
        The call of love—
God's love or man's—ah me!
     How white is she—
        My flower, my dove!

How white is she! O heart,
     Craven thou art.
        Hark thee— be stilled!
The highest ranks of heaven—
     God's circles seven—
        Christ's love hath filled.

God hath no need of her;
     She does not stir
        When wide skies shine.
She lives for love. Awhile
     Her solemn smile
        Is ours— is mine!