On Love

Sing , heart of spring, along the winter ways,
Go lightly feet, 'twas here His footsteps fell,
The birds sing of Him for he counted them
And knew them all, the little wingèd loves
Like happy thoughts! Yea, every leaf that kissed
Him passing in the garden hath such life
As puts our immortality to shame.
The winds are pregnant with His message now,
The universal, all-uniting winds
That know no limitation, like the spirit
Of mighty truths, sweeping creation's bounds,
Disdaining man-made barriers, change and time

The Winter Sun is a Miser
His joy is to hoard and hold,
But the Summer Sun is wiser
He freely gives his gold.

With lavish and broad disbursal,
Beneath and around and above,
He sows his wealth Universal,
And reaps universal love.

Once there in my garden fair
Sang a bird of plumage rare,
From its throat there came to greet
My ear sweet music—strangely sweet.

Once a flower of lovely hue
In this self same garden grew,
Blossomed—oh, so sweetly there
That its breath perfumed the air.

Once a flower of lovely hue
This same garden murmured through,
Over shining stones it played,
Softest, richest music made.

In this garden 'neath a tree
That cast its copious shade for me,
Was a restful cool retreat
From the noonday's scorching heat.

Sleep, sleep, imperious heart! Sleep, fair and undefiled!
Sleep and be free.
Come in your dreams at last, comrade and queen and child,
At last to me.

Come, for the honeysuckle calls you out of the night.
Come, for the air
Calls with a tyrannous remembrance of delight,
Passion, and prayer.

Sleep, sovereign heart! and now, — for dream and memory
Endure no door, —
My spirit undenied goes where my feet, to thee,
Have gone before.

A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow,
Silent, unseen, —

Give not to me, mid the thunder
And speed of the world's hot wheels,
Such love as perhaps the Marble
For the Alabaster feels.

But love me with love as fiery
As the furnace whence arose
Both Marble and Alabaster,
In the Earth's primeval throes.

Nature has no solitude
For those who list to her,
Her voice is daily heard to speak
To them distinct and clear.

Think'st thou the broad expanse
Of lake, of ocean grand,
The flow of brooks and rivers,
And stretch of level land,

The grandeur of the mountains,
The flowers, the grass, the trees,
The rocks, the birds, the insects, —
Think'st thou not that these,

These things and others, too, which make
Up Nature, truly they
Speak to the inward man — the soul —
In accents clear each day.

Shall we know our dear and loved ones
Who before ourselves have gone
To that fair Celestial City,
They whose work on earth is done?

Shall we meet them there in Heaven,
Friends to us so near and dear,
Shall we greet them and caress them,
As we did when they were here?

Shall, oh, shall we in their company
Walk the shining streets of gold,
And behold the city's beauties,
Whose half never's yet been told?

Yes, we'll know our dear and loved ones,
When to Heaven's streets we go,
And we'll know as we are known,

Said Life to Art — " I love thee best
Not when I find in thee
My very face and form, expressed
With dull fidelity,

" But when in thee my craving eyes
Behold continually
The mystery of my memories
And all I long to be. "

Ah, love, if you could only know
The longing in this heart of mine,
You would unsay those fateful words,
And I no longer would repine.

Your fond desire is to share
All that you have — all that you own,
I ask of you far greater wealth,
The priceless gift of love, alone.

Steadfast and true I still remain,
In spite of utter loneliness,
O, let thy soul go forth with mine,
Upon this quest of happiness.

For love is life, and life is love,
Break not the bond 'twixt thee and me,
Then shall this precious, priceless gift,

There's not a breeze that passes
But it seems to bring to me
Some tender, looked-for tidings,
Some message, love, from thee.

There's not a bird that singeth
From wall or bush or tree,
From roof of vine-wreathed balcony
But singeth, love, of thee.

There's not a flower that blossoms,
But your kindly, pensive face,
With loving eyes and heart love
On its painted leaves I trace.

There's not a stream that murmurs
Through wood or grassy lea,
Down mountain side or hollow
But will murmur, love, of thee.