I would I might behold
One little child
Grow up with naught but joy.
O my heart is sure
That child would be more pure,
More beautiful,
More wonderful,
Than any dream hath told—
Of a beauty without alloy.

But mayhap he would be too fair,
For our eyes as yet too rare …
For since the world with sorrow is defiled,
Even the Most Beautiful
Must our sorrow share.