I know not whether I love you, Dora:

Your beauty moves me, I know not how—

Your eyes that shine with a joy unspoken,

Your pride and sweetness of bosom and brow.

But I had not deemed that our earth could fashion

Of flesh and spirit so rare a thing—

And you lift my heart with the nameless passion

That stirs young blood in the dawn of spring.

I know not whether I love you, Dora,

Nor if you be what a man may wed.

Whence came that glory of ancient Hellas

That seems to hover about your head?

Have you roamed with Artemis, talked with Pallas?

Did Hera lend you that look sublime?

Did Bacchus give in a rose-wreathed chalice

That conquering charm of the youth of Time?

I know not whether I love you, Dora,

But well I know you are not for me,

So darken’d and marr’d with the bitter travail

Of things that are not, and fain would be.

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