Oh, not for strangers do I wear
The jewels in my flowing hair,
Nor yet for others' eyes array
My limbs in vestments rich and gay:
Nor wish that even friends should see
The smile that's only meant for thee.
From pleasures of this life debarred,
They tell me that my lot is hard,
That, forc'd like prison'd bird to pine,
Such joys as theirs can ne'er be mine;
That beauty, wit, and gems are vain
If hidden they must thus remain.
They tell me that in festal hall,
To be admired and prais'd by all,
To feel one's self—O triumph high!—
The cynosure of every eye,
The fairest of the fair to be:
This, this is life,—bright, glad and free.
From such advice I turn away,
It only serves to lead astray:
The dance, the crowd, are not for me,
I envy not their liberty:—
Happy as queen upon her throne,
I love to dwell among mine own.
Is there no peace for them at home,
That restless here and there they roam?
And are they of their lords so tired,
That they should seek to be admired
By friends and strangers? Thus can they
Mid dance, and song, and jest, be gay?
For thee alone, my love, I wear
The jewels in my flowing hair,
For thee the glance, for thee the smile,
For thee this heart which knows no guile:
And blest, supremely blest I'll be
With one kind word and look from thee.