Wrath is a wrinkled hag, hell-born,
Her heart is hate, her soul is scorn,
Blinded with blood, she can not see
To do a deed of charity.

Love is a maiden young and fair,
She kissed the brow of dumb despair
Till comfort came; ah, love is she,
Whose other name is Charity.

I dreamed I met thee, with the glow
Of Girlhood fresh upon thy cheek,
As when thy voice, serene and low,
In love's undying tones did speak;
And through my heart, and to my brain,
Rushed life's warm current wildly-free,
As memory brought back again
My Boyhood's earnest love for thee.

'Twas midst a gay and brilliant throng,
Where dancers glided to and fro,
And where the wild, impassioned song,
Brought to each eye love's burning glow;
But we had strayed apart from all
The gayer spirits that had met —

It is not that I hate mankind
Or their pursuits at all.
I love them every one, but find
My own the best of all.

Society of man is sweet,
Of woman even sweeter,
With varied interest replete,
Only my own repleter.

For discipline I must deny
Myself myself sometimes;
But I return with luxury
To books and thought and rhymes.

A SUNSHINE heart,
And a soul of song,
Love for hate,
And right for wrong;
Softly speak to the weak,
Help them along,
A sunshine heart,
And a soul of song.

A sunshine heart,
And a soul of song,
What though about thee
Foemen throng?
All the day, on thy way,
Be thou strong;
A sunshine heart,
And a soul of song.

With burning brain and heart of hate,
I sought my wronger, early, late,
And all the wretched night and day
My dream and thought was slay, and slay.

My better self rose uppermost,
The beast within my bosom lost
Itself in love; peace from afar
Shone o'er me radiant like a star.

I slew my wronger with a deed,
A deed of love; I made him bleed
With kindnesses, I filled for years
His soul with tenderness and tears.

Love is hot, and love is cold,
Love is gentle, love is bold,
Love can perish in a day,
O and love can last alway;
Love hath rived my heart in twain,
Love hath healed the hurt again,
O sweet Love!

Love is heaven, love is hell,
A dream, a truth, a miracle;
Love doth ripple like a rill,
Love can roar the torrent still;
How can weakling words portray,
That which over all hath sway,

Oh! solitary heart!
Companionless as the unresting sea;
And yet, how skilled thou art
In Love's impenetrable mystery!

Like a coy maid,
Whose love and virtue are her only dower,
Thou seemest half afraid
Of thy exhaustless and well-governed power.

Thy love is too serene,
Exalted, and immortal, to be felt,
Even by thy chosen queen,
In whose cold arms thou couldst have ever dwelt,

The morn was bright, and prophesied a day
That was fulfilled — that passed in facile peace
To halt at eve, and fade with slow decrease
Through crimson sunset, gold, and twilight gray
Until the night that leadeth home the stray
Fell darkly down and closed the little lease
Allowed our labour to begin and cease —
The labour that is love, and loves to pray.
Now do the starbeams smile upon the few
Who prayed and loved, and laboured all the hours
Their fields are moistened with a fresher dew,
Methinks, the while the wakeful wanton cowers

Of all the spots for making love,
Give me a shady dairy,
With crimson tiles, and blushing smiles
From its presiding fairy;
The jolly sunbeams peeping in
Thro' vine leaves all a-flutter,
Like greetings sent from Phaebus to
The Goddess of Fresh Butter.

The swallows twittering in the eaves,
The air of Summer blowing
Thro' open door from where a score
Of tall rose-trees are growing,
A distant file of hollyhocks,
A rugged bush of tansy,
And nearer yet beside the steps
A gorgeous purple pansy;

O Rose ! console me now
For heaven doth allow
None else, but only thee
To witness here with me,
And keep to-night love's year long flight —
O Rose! a night of grief.

Thy life is sweet as hers
Who met the messengers
Of death and led them back
Along the brightening track,
For she knew more of heaven's far shore, —
O Rose! knew more than they.

As spotless she as thou!
God — loving — did endow
Her soul with all things pure
That here awhile endure.
But deathly sleep my love doth keep —
O Rose! a sleep of death.