Mary, sister, Mary of angels,
Theodora,—no, let the old name die
That was yours, that is love's,
Lie still,—it's asleep dear, Mary—
And yet, do you think I forget,
Don't grudge you even a little to Heaven,
And you smiling, scoffing me,
Calling you chosen of Him for His bride?
But oh! shame, killing love with that name.
He was tender once; was He tender,

And is He cruel now?
Laying low the heart's beat of love,
“Will ye climb, will ye reach up to Heaven,” saying,
“Great Love and be God?
So are you ripe for my slaying;

Here in the silent doorway let me linger
One moment, for the porch is still and lonely;
That shadow's but the rose vine in the moonlight;
All are asleep in peace, I waken only,
And he I wait, by my own heart's beating
I know how slow to him the tide creeps by,
Nor life, nor death, could bar our hearts from meeting;
Were worlds between, his soul to mine would fly.

Oh, shame! to think a heap of paltry metal
Should overbalance manhood's noblest graces;
A film of gold had gilt his worth and honor,
Warming to smiles the coldness of their faces;

O Love of my Love, O blue,
Blue sky that over me bends!
The height and the light are you,
And I the lark that ascends,
Trembling ascends and soars,
A heart that pants, a throat
That throbs, a song that pours
The heart out as it sings.
Lo, the dumb world falls remote,
But higher, brighter, the golden height!
Oh, I faint upon my wings!
Lift me, Love, beyond their flight,
Lift me, lose me in the light.

And now the sad thought fills my heart with tears
And stills my very singing for awhile.—
When love is born, the farthest white clouds smile
And fragrance wafted from remotest years
Greets us, and all June's chanting fills our ears.
We linger, as one lingers on a stile
'Tween meadow and meadow. Flowers so fair beguile
Our fancy that it hath no room for fears.

When love is born, the farthest star-lips sing
And music fills the temples of the sky.
Who dreams of Winter when the green-clad Spring
With white hand full of primroses is nigh?

The waves forever move;
The hills forever rest:
Yet each the heavens approve,
And Love alike hath blessed
A Martha's household care,
A Mary's cloistered prayer.

I, too, the fatal harvest gained
Of them that sow with seed of fire
In passion's garden—I have drained
The goblet of thy sick desire.

I from thy love had bitter bliss,
And ever in my memory stir
The after-savours of thy kiss—
The taste of aloes and of myrrh.

And yet I love thee, love unblessed
The poison of thy wanton's art;
Though thou be sister to the Pest
In thy great hands I lay my heart!

And when thy body Titan-strong
Writhes on its giant couch of sin,
Yea, though upon the trembling throng

I like the lad that's like mysel
Content to be alane
Though he's not a penny for to tell
And sits on the hearth stane
If he's a man—a comely man
My sweet heart he shall be
Contentment is the choicest plan
Love makes us baith agree

If he's the lad thats lotted out
Then Im the Lass mysell
We'll neither live in strife or doubt
But manage matters well
And if he is the lad for me
And I become his ain
Black slanderous tongues may disagree
The quarrels all in vain

I'll luiv and keep him all my sen
And gie him a' my heart

WE HAVE LIVED and loved together
Through many changing years;
We have shared each other's gladness
And wept each other's tears;
I have known ne'er a sorrow
That was long unsoothed by thee;
For thy smiles can make a summer
Where darkness else would be.

Like the leaves that fall around us
In autumn's fading hours,
Are the traitor's smiles, that darken
When the cloud of sorrow lowers;
And though many such we've known, love,
Too prone, alas, to range,
We both can speak of one love
Which time can never change.

There are three fine devils eating my heart—
They left me, my grief! without a thing;
Sickness wrought, and Love wrought,
And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.
Poverty left me without a shirt,
Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering;
Sickness left me with my head weak
And my body miserable, an ugly thing.
Love left me like a coal upon the floor,
Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.
Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself,
Worse than any curse at all under the sun,
Worse than the great poverty

Blest be the bonds of Christian love
That bind our hearts in one;
Blest foretaste of the bliss above,—
Our heaven on earth begun

Kindred in Christ, our hopes we rest,
Alike on His dear name;
One love inspires each throbbing breast,—
Our covenant-vows, the same

Our prayers from many hearts ascend,—
One cloud before the throne;
Our many grateful voices blend
In one harmonious tone.

So joy for joy, and tear for tear,
And grace for grace is given;
So the glad harvest, ripened here,
Shall crown our love in heaven.