Thou art like some sweet queen who gives her heart
To zealous Psyche-service for a time,
Till she shall gather wings and growth sublime
And upwards towards the ancestral high heaven start.
Mine endlessly, unceasingly, thou art,
For I have kissed thee in some ancient clime
And circled thee with immemorial rhyme;
In truth our spirits never were apart.

But now to this love-service thou art doomed,
Though mine thou art in the inmost depth of things.
Though round thee endless starless nights have gloomed,

But is it any crime to love you so
That I would have you sitting ever near,
Ready to help my patient labour, dear,
And all depression's fiends to overthrow?
Is it a wrong that I would have you here
To aid the lagging moments as they go
And speed the silent hours with glances clear?
Is love condemned, when love doth overflow?

A little distance seems quite " far away, "
Because my heart would have you close indeed.
After clear sunshine e'en the moon looks grey
And wretched, — and so urgent is my need

Yet let us comfort. Comfort is a part
Of that strong help which either spirit needs:
It lifts, it soothes, it purifies each heart;
God's touch is gentle, when the pierced soul bleeds.
When anger fails, a softer speech succeeds
Full often; the great victories are won
By patience, and the everlasting deeds
By everlasting tenderness are done,
And out of love the angels' robes are spun,
And sweetest pity in God's loom is woven,
And he is crowned with mercy like a sun: —
By bitter lightning trees in twain are cloven,

Pain's fiery lesson was to teach us this:
To teach the perfect truth to either soul, —
That now, beside us as the swift months roll,
Nought may disturb, no frailty mar, our bliss.
Beneath the stars again our spirits kiss:
Again the smarting puzzled hearts are whole:
Again with gladdened lips Love's crystal bowl
We touch; — and know how great a thing Love is.

Heart of my heart, soul of my soul indeed,
Wast thou in sorrow, and did I not bleed?
Mind of my mind, were issues vast at stake,
Bewildering thee, — and did not my mind ache?

I hear the murmurs of the eternal sea
That washes round the trembling shores of time;
I mark faint whispers from another clime;
Death's form at seasons overshadows me.
But through it all I part not, sweet, from thee; —
Rather our passion waxes more sublime
As earthly sounds become like some spent rhyme;
Our sacred love-flower blooms eternally.

Oh, if thou diest the first, be ever near
To lead me upward with love's whisper clear, —
To draw me forth with passion's accent fond.
When the last loving kiss on earth is given

The strength of man first storms the heart:
But in the end the woman gives as well.
Man's love first plays its urgent part;
Man's passion sweeps wide-winged o'er valley and fell.

First man pursues. With strength he seeks:
For months he deems that no response is there.
Then, on a sudden, rose-red cheeks!—
He laughs, and kisses lips and throat and hair.
This is love's reciprocity divine.
Man loves,—and thinks the woman cold:
But her pure heart is learning line by line
Love-lore it may not yet unfold.

I.

To-day thou hast the wings, O love of mine,
And over the sea's grey
Thou canst flee quite away
Leaving my lyre to weep, my soul to pine.

II.

Young art thou, and thou hast the wondrous wings
Of girlhood, and the air
Of summer finds thee fair
And round about thee all the wildwood sings.

III.

Oh, what can hold thee? Can I stay thy flight?
Oh love alone can hold
Thy young plumes fleet and bold

Not for the Stage,—nay, thou art made for higher regions!
What hath the rose to say to lesser pale flower-legions?
What hath the stainless air
To say to wreaths of cloud that linger in the valley?
When round about thy path the gold-winged angels rally
Wilt thou be less than they, who art more fair?

Thou art a poet's love. Be worthy of thy poet.
Rise to thy woman's height: abjure not, nor forego it,
The whiteness of thy soul.
Lo! there are thousands left to seek the valley-fountains:

It surely must be sweet
To be loved, sweetheart, as my soul loves thee?
It must make yet more blue the bluest sea,
More swift the summer's feet!
It must make every tender flower beside
The river thou dost seek
Smile almost, almost speak:
It must add radiance to the water wide.

It must make every day
More beautiful, my beauty, unto thee:
I have not lived for nothing if through me
Love doth his gifts convey.

It must make, surely, all a woman's soul
Expand and bud and bloom;

Help thou me with my Art!
That thus the beauty which I worship so
May flush the world's sad cheeks with summer glow
And comfort many a heart.

Clear is our duty high.
Thou hast the gift of beauty; I can sing;
We have to bless the wintry world with spring
And sunlight, thou and I.

Help me the world to teach.
Teach me all lessons gracious with thine eyes:
Be ever, love, the most divine surprise
That e'er moved songful speech.

Teach me love's secrets deep.