I Love A Maid, A Mystic Maid, Whose Form No Eyes But Mine Can See; She Comes In Light, She Comes In Shade, And Beautiful In Both Is She. Her Shape In Dreams I Oft Behold, And Oft She Whispers In My Ear Such Words As When To Others Told, Awake The Sigh, Or Wring The Tear; Then Guess, Guess, Who She, The Lady Of My Love, May Be. I Find The Lustre Of Her Brow, Come O'Er Me In My Darkest Ways; And Feel As If Her Voice, Even Now, Were Echoing Far Off My Lays. There Is No Scene Of Joy Or Woe But She Doth Gild With Influence Bright; And Shed O'Er All So Rich A Glow As Makes Even Tears Seem Full Of Light: Then Guess, Guess, Who She, The Lady Of My Love, May Be.