NO man love's fiery passion can approve
As either yielding profit or promotion,
I like, a calm and lukewarm zeal in love,
Although I do not like it in devotion.
Besides, man needs not love unless he please;
No destiny can force his disposition.
How then can any die of that disease
Whereof himself may turn his own physician?
Some one, perhaps, in long consumption dried,
And after falling into love, may die;
But I dare pawn my life he ne'er had died
Had been healthy at the heart as I.
Some others, rather than incur the slander

None loves me, Father, with thy love,
None else can meet such needs as mine;
O grant me, as thou shalt approve,
All that befits a child of thine;
From every doubt and fear release,
And give me confidence and peace!

Give me a faith shall never fail,
Faith that shall always work by love;
And then, whatever foes assail,
They shall but higher courage move
More boldly for the truth to strive,
And more by faith in thee to live.

A heart that, when my days are glad,
May never from thy way decline,
And when the sky of life grows sad,

O Love, Love, Love!
Whether it rain or shine,
Whether the clouds frown or the sky is clear,
Whether the thunder fill the air with fear,
Whether the winter rage or peace is here,
If only thou art near,
Then are all days divine.

O Love, Love, Love!
Where thou art not, the place
Is sad to me as death. It would be cold
In heaven without thee, if I might not hold
Thy hand in mine, if I might not behold
The beauty manifold,
The wonder of thy face.

When I would sing of crooked streams and fields,
On, on from me they stretch too far and wide,
And at their look my song all powerless yields,
And down the river bears me with its tide;
Amid the fields I am a child again,
The spots that then I loved I love the more,
My fingers drop the strangely-scrawling pen,
And I remember nought but nature's lore;
I plunge me in the river's cooling wave,
Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean,
Now some endangered insect life to save,
Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses green;

“D EAR as remembered kisses after death”—
We read and pause, toying the pliant page
With absent fingers while we question slow,
By whom remembered? Not by those that live,
And love again, and wed, and know fresh joys,
Forgetting the pale past. Ah, no! for them,
The sudden stirring of such long-whelmed thought
Means shock and pain, and swift reburial.
But it may be, that with the dreaming dead,
Who sank away quick piercèd by despair,
It may be that their stillness is aglow
Through soft recalling of each loved caress;

An ancient tome came to my hands:
A tale of love in other lands:
Writ by a Master so divine,
The Love seems ever mine and thine.
The volume opened at the place
That sings of sweet Francesca's grace:
How reading of Fair Guinevere
And Launcelot that long gone year,
Her eyes into her lover's fell
And—there was nothing more to tell.
That day they op'ed that book no more:
Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.

Beneath the passage so divine,
Some woman's hand had traced a line,
And reverently upon the spot
Had laid a blue forget-me-not:

That farewell voice of love is never heard again
Yet I remember it and think on it with pain
I see the place she spoke when passing by
The flowers were blooming as her form drew nigh
That voice is gone with every pleasing tone
Loved but one moment and the next alone
Farewell the winds repeated as she went
Walking in silence through the grassy bent
The wild flowers they ne'er look'd so sweet before
Bowed in far[e] wells to her they'll see no more
In this same spot the wild flowers bloom the same
In scent and hue and shape aye even name

Light as love's smile the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel gayly leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That richly deck the slow declining year;

None ever was in love with me but grief.
—She wooed me from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
—And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
—She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
—And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
—To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
—I love no love but thee.

She who mocked at my despair,
Tossed the ringlets of her hair,
See her now that beauty's fled,
All her pride discomfited.

Hanging breast, and sunken eye,
Lips that babble foolishly,
Drooping eyebrows, all confess
Age and wrinkled ugliness.

Love a righteous vengeance claims
On the heads of haughty dames,
Gray hairs not to be denied
Are his nemesis for pride.