Classic Poem

I crave thine highest love.—No mere swift temporal passion,
That gives, then passes on in boyish girlish fashion;
No momentary thing;
But love that ever grows to higher tenderer beauty:
The love whose heart is one with the strong soul of duty:
The love whereat the stars rejoice and sing.

The love of thy deep soul. The love that, daily growing,
Sees ever, as the path, along the mountains going,
Winds upward day by day,
New heights of sacred joy before its footstep gleaming:
The love whose heart is one with woman's softest dreaming:
The love that triumphs when the hair turns grey.

This I would ask of thee—The love that, far from winning
And leaving, rather aims for ever at beginning:
The love whose birth is new
Each morn and every eve: the love that knows no sorrow
For, if the night be sombre, it can create to-morrow
New light, and blossoms fair with freshest dew.