The old man of the mountains loves the mountains:
in the mountains he has built his thatched hut.
At night, there's a storm; the snow is so thick
it snaps branches of bamboo outside the window.

“What does the little boy love?”
He loves this room of fragrant plants!
He wants to mount a flying dragon
and fly to heaven, to see the red sun.

Living , she loved the house of prayer;
Loving, she lived to plant it here,
And left what love could well afford,
A noble offering to her Lord.

No better monument could tell
What her heart loved, and loved so well,—
Such holy love breathed in her breath,
Lived in her life, survived her death.

Though marble piles in dust decay,
And human glory melts away,
Her gift abides in sins forgiven,
In souls redeemed, and heirs of heaven.

Blessings be on this favored spot,—
No act of love shall be forgot;
And Christ's approving word shall be,

Friend, little weak fair Christine, see
What a wail came, your long sigh
To my dove's nest. O! but my nest is built high,
Here at Heaven's edge. In His love
On the warm snowy breast of His bride,
I well hidden, revelling in the sweets.
Christine, He called me, I was bidden;
Listen how He called—no, that was eternally,
How I heard. On one eve then—
You remember our room,
The little dear room in our world's home, where we
Oft by the lattice sat talking familiarly,
Now with one or another
Sweet word of our love each for other,

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