I love to think that spirits dwell
Upon the earth, — the beautiful, the good,
Whose sympathies are pure, yet understood
By none save those who feel the spell.

I love to think that in life's vale
There are ungathered flowers, whose bosoms glow
With silent feeling and with tender woe
For him whose hopes, long cherished, fail.

I love to think that still a ray,
Divine like that of hope, will long be felt
By her to whom in earlier years I knelt, —
The vision of my darkened way.

I love to think that golden hours

Cold, cold in her little bed,
With all the spring returning!
Can flowers come back while she lies dead,
And the world go unmourning?

Cold, cold, in her little bed,
Snowdrops her starry cover ...
Oh, Spring, go softly overhead
For the sake of those who love her!

I had believed love vast and tragic,
Surging music heard afar,
Something misty, mystic, glamorous,
Dim and lofty as a star.

We have found out love together,
(All my empty dreaming done),
Sturdy as the yellow daisies
Growing in the sun!

The petals of the water-lilies tremble
as the wind murmurs
through the Palace of the Waters.

The King of Lou
lounges idly on the terrace of Kou-Sou;
before him is Sy-che;

she is dancing,
and her movements are rhythmical
and full of delicate grace.

Then she laughs,
sensuous in her weariness;
she leans against the royal white jade bed,
and gazes towards the east.

What is love like? The wind
That tears great temples down?
Ah, no, the cruelest wind
Leaves some few stones behind.

What is love like? The roar
And anger of a tempest-ridden sea?
Ah, no, the angriest sea
Cast back some bits of wreckage to the shore.

The blackbirds fly before the cold,
The painted grosbeaks go;
Not any tanager is so bold
As to brave the snow.

There's a look of storm about the skies,
There's trouble in the west;
And Love, who's old and very wise,
Love flies off with the rest.

An old wife
Someone who appears in the middle of a conversation
A beggar standing at the gate
The officious parent of one's boy favorite
A woman who falls asleep after making love.

Joe hates a Sycophant. It shows
Self-love is not a fault of J OE'S .

Though she depart, a vision flitting,
If I these thoughts in words exhale:
I love you, you blonde maiden, sitting
Within your pure white beauty's veil.
I love you for your blue eyes dreaming,
Like moonlight moving over snow,
And 'mid the far-off forests beaming

I believe in God, Creator,
Shepherd of all human souls;
Not apart and watching Nature,
While her wondrous plan unrolls,
But the Father of our spirits,
And the Moulder of our frames,
Loving each as one begotten,
Calling all by separate names.

I believe his holy Spirit
Fills the earth from shore to shore,
Round about, above, within us,
Bearing witness evermore:
Where that Spirit findeth entrance,
Though it tarry but a night,
Even sordid eyes, beholding,
See the wondrous love and light.