I am not afraid to turn the corner:
I know what is round where and am satisfied:
I know that hate is round there and cruelty and that I must suffer as well as enjoy,
But I know that love also is round there, ceaseless love.
I hear voices: voices that caution me against my loyal journeys.
But no matter what are the warnings they post on the uncertain road,
I go my way without a stop, in the full knowledge of love's loss and love's gain,
My way to the end and the beginning again without a stop,
My soul and my body agreed that neither is to falter or retreat.

Help me to hold the Vision Undefiled;
To love, and, taught by Love, to understand.
Lord, as a Father with a Backward child,
Guide Thou the Pen within my wavering hand!

Above a low mound at the cedar tree's root
Is carved on a stone that is moldering dark,
“The Dove found no rest for the sole of her foot,
And returned unto Him in the Ark.”

In the old garden-path
Sorely care needing,
Fadeth a plant away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

In the old manor-house,
Listless, scarce heeding,
Fadeth a life away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

I saw a vision of the morning age
A farm with mammoths in the stable fed
A man stroking strange hounds: and o'er his head
A pterodactyl singing in a cage.

Gigantic elks dragged ploughs on uplands high
All the world's wild youth wrought around him rose
Huge and half-witted things, to chaos close
He loved them: and I knew that it was I.

Bearing this snail I stand on crags above
And cry aloud to all the worlds that fell—
Daring the darkness of the brain of hell
To breed one horror that I cannot love.

Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charm'd me
Long long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm'd me:
Yet when this thought doth come,

"Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,'
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.

O Love, they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee;
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.

You are a yonger brother; but, God shield
That I should make you so, were you a child;
No; I will make you (as you are) a man
Of that desert as you both will and can
Teach yonger brothers to be generous;
And liue like those that grace not shame, their House.

Still as of old I seem to sit
Where gods convene, with brows that shine;
The aroma still is exquisite;
Still glows the unearthly wine!

Yet Hebe, urging me to sup
With dimpled smile, no more I see …
But serving every golden cup,
Glides dark Mnemosyne!

Go now, Love,
Since staying's joy no longer!
Leave me to prove
If Time can make me stronger!
Nay, look not over thy shoulder so,
Pleading so sweetly to remain,
Where thou workest so much pain:
Look not behind thee, haste and go!

Ah, how should I
Deal to thee such hard measure,
As force thee fly,
Who broughtest heavenly pleasure?
Take pity, Love, and be kind
To him that could not refuse thee!
Is it not grief enough to lose thee?
Haste, O haste, nor look behind!

Leave me, Fear! thy throbs are base,
Trembling for the body's sake.
Come, Love! who dost the spirit raise,
Because for others thou dost wake.
O it is beautiful in death
To hide the shame of human nature's end
In sweet & wary serving of a friend.
Love is true Glory's field, where the last breath
Expires in troops of honorable cares.
The wound of Fate the hero cannot feel
Smit with the heavenlier smart of social zeal.
It draws immortal day
In soot & ashes of our clay.
It is the virtue that enchants it.
It is the face of God that haunts it.

The Power that lifts the leaf above
And sends the root below,
Sustains the heart in brother-love
And makes it heavenward grow.