"Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

For years of lonely thought, in morning-tide
Of life, will make a spirit all unfit
To brook of men the waywardness and pride;
Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;
Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,
And deeming only glorious the soul lit
With the pure flame of knowledge, and the eye
Fill'd with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.

I love thee, yet I fear. Behold I stand
Before a spotless judge. Thy soul I see,
Holding the balance with a steady hand,
That doth not tremble as thou look'st on me.
Before those light-filled eyes of equity,
Before those features, beautiful, austere,
I cannot stand. How feel thy soul so near
And feel myself unstained, pure, clean and whole?
I love thee,—yea, I love thee,—but I fear
I fear the comment of thy spotless soul.

The sigh of the wind in the soft belahs,
Is in tune with my thoughts to-night;
That dwell as I stray 'neath the steel bright stars
On a love that was pure and white.

And I start and thrill as I backward move,
For a face to me close I see;
Oh, surely the pow'r of a deathless love
Must be bringing you back to me!

For the thrill of that dear old love is sweet,
And it sinks to my heart's sad core;
As fresh as it did ere a soul's defeat
O'erwhelmed it in days of yore.

You said I was cold when we said “good-bye,”

You say my love is but a man.
But I can find more odds
'Twixt him and others that I can
Find between him and gods.
He has in's eye
Such-majesty,
His shape is so divine
That were I owner of the world
He only should be mine.

Thinking of those who walked here long ago
On this greenway in summer and in snow
She said, ‘This is the oldest road we tread,
The oldest in the world?’ ‘Yes, love,’ I said.

Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep,
Sink in the timeless sleep;
One Image stands before my eyes,
And thrills my bosom's deep:
One Vision bathes in radiant light
My spirit's palace-halls;
All stir of hand, all throb of brain,
Quivers, and sinks, and falls.
My soul fares forth; no fetters now
Chain me to this world's shore.
Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare;
Let no man wake me more!

I SING not Love prose-mated
With Pride or Sense, soon sated,
Where give and take are rated
In terms of bargain-buyer;
Nor Love that sells her dearly
For so much shelter yearly,
As Cupid's torch were merely
To light the kitchen fire;

Nor Love that lingers, longing,
In reasoned absence, wronging
The soul's desires, thronging
As pleading angels bend;
Nor Love that never misses
The mate's estrangèd kisses,
And is, of former blisses,
Content to keep—a friend;

Nor prudish Love repressive
That, lest it seem aggressive,

It's dark
Switch on the poem
please
(click)
thank you
I love you
(and it was light)
but I'll still
I'll still be loving you
when
(click)
(end of light poem)
it's dark again.











Used by permission of the author.

one of our brassy beefeaters
in grandstand on the continent
bares biceps to the gaping millions
sinks shaft in market
pockets wheat
holds cornucopia of cash

cheers heard before his private front
as he lands place with notables

we call this tribute in a nutshell,
a miracle of entertainment

Speaking of beaus sartorial,
perplexed young girl hands laugh to love-wise:
“I am a lovely irresistible girl
of seventeen with wondrous witching orbs.”

Why do I blaze in my intangibles
like a mandolin romantic,
you, stable as the sterling?