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Poems and Lyrics

The Princess

    I loved her, one
    Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
    Nor perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
    No Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
    Interpreter between the gods and men,
    Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
    On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
    Too gross to tread,
    and all male minds perforce
    Sway's to her from their orbits
    as they moved,
    And girdled her with music. Happy he
    With such a mother! faith in womenkind
    Beats with his blood,
    and trust in all things high
    Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall,
    He shall not blind his soul with clay.

    - Alfred Lord Tennyson



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