Explore "Sonnets" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Not you, nor all the gauds that Fate bestows, / Can make me swerve so little from my dream.
Across my veil of mystery you seem / Perhaps a little dearer than the rose, / Perhaps more fair than the long light that flows / Between the lids of twilight. But the gleam / Of iris on the breast of wisdom's stream / Is of a radiance that no rival knows.