Dora Sigerson Shorter,
Unknown Ideal
(1907)
“ Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, With halting tongue; No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice Your groves among. Whose is the loveliness I know is by, Yet cannot place? Is it perfection of the sea or sky, Or human face? Not yours, my pencil, to delineate The splendid smile! Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate That glows the while. ”
