The Blind God.

I know not if she be unkind,
If she have faults I do not care;
Search through the world - where will you find
A face like hers, a form, a mind?
I love her to despair.
If she be cruel, cruelty
Is a great virtue, I will swear;
If she be proud - then pride must be
Akin to Heaven's divinest three -
I love her to despair.
Why speak to me of that and this?
All you may say weighs not a hair!
In her, - whose lips I may not kiss, -
To me naught but perfection is! -
I love her to despair.