Dear, if I never saw your face again;    If all the music of your voice were mute    As that of a forlorn and broken lute;  If only in my dreams I might attain  The benediction of your touch, how vain    Were Faith to justify the old pursuit    Of happiness, or Reason to confute  The pessimist philosophy of pain.  Yet Love not altogether is unwise,    For still the wind would murmur in the corn,      And still the sun would splendor all the mere;      And I-I could not, dearest, choose but hear  Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes    Shine in the glory of the summer morn.