midnight
Who is the maid my spirit seeks , Through cold reproof and slander 's blight ? Has _ she _ Love 's roses on her cheeks ? Is _ hers _ an eye of this world 's light ? No : wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love ; Or if , at times , a light be there , Its beam is kindled from above . I chose not her , my heart 's elect , From those who seek their Maker 's shrine In gems and garlands proudly decked , As if themselves were things divine . No : Heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broidered veil ; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty , still is frail . Not so the faded form I prize And love , because its bloom is gone ; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace _ her _ brow puts on .