She is not dead, but sleepeth; —
Ere long will the morning break,
When those we love who sleep in Him,
Shall from the dust awake.

She is not dead, but sleepeth; —
Soon, soon will the ransomed sing
O! grave, where is thy victory?
O! death, where is thy sting?

She did not love to love, but hated him
For making her to love; and so her whim
From passion taught misprision to begin.
And all this sin
Was because love to cast out had no skill
Self, which was regent still.
Her own self-will made void her own self's will.

XII.
Shal I come, if I swim? wide are the waves, you see:
Shall I come, if I flie, my deere love, to thee?
Streames Venus will appease, Cupid gives me winges:
All the powers assist my desire
Save you alone, that set my wofull heart on fire.

You are faire; so was Hero that in Sestos dwelt;
She a priest, yet the heate of love truly felt.
A greater streame then this did her love devide,

Set Love in order, thou that lovest Me.
Never was virtue out of order found;
And though I fill thy heart desirously,
By thine own virtue I must keep My ground:
When to My love thou dost bring charity,
Even she must come with order girt and gown'd.
Look how the trees are bound
To order, bearing fruit;
And by one thing compute,
In all things earthly, order's grace or gain.

All earthly things I had the making of
Were numbered and were measured then by Me;
And each was ordered to its end by Love,

A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory,
Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
" Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

" I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I fell.
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;
For God is just, and death for sin is well.

" I do not rage against His high decree,
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;
But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

" Great Spirit! Let me see my love again
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain

The sea hath many thousand sands,
The sky hath motes as many;
The sky is full of stars, and love
As full of woes as any:
Believe me, that do know the elf,
And make no trial by thyself.

It is in truth a pretty toy
For babes to play withal;
But O the honies of our youth
Are oft our age's gall!
Self-proof in time will make thee know
He was a prophet told thee so:

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
Tells truth without belief;
For headstrong youth will run his race,
Although his goal be grief:

" THE rose, it is a royal flower. "
" The red or the white? show his colour. "
" Both be full sweet and of like savour. "
" All one they be
That day to see
It liketh well me.
I love, I love, and whom love ye? "
" I love the rose both red and white. "
" Is that your pure perfect appetite? "
" To hear talk of them is my delight. "
" Joyed may we be
Our prince to see
And roses three.
Now have I loved, and whom love ye? "
" I love a flower of fresh beauty. "
" I love another as well as ye. "

While Riding The 104 Broadway Bus:

There is too much pain
I cannot understand
I cannot pray

I cannot pray for all the little ones with bellies bloated by starvation in India;
for all the angry Africans striving to be separate in a world struggling for wholeness;
for all the young Chinese men and women taught that hatred and killing are good and compassion evil;
or even all the frightened people in my own city looking for truth in pot or aid.
Here I am

Thou dearest Object of my fondest Love,
What Words can speak the Misery I prove?
Doom'd as I am by my relentless Fate,
To bear the worst of dreaded Ills, your Hate.
Lov'd tho' thou wert, in every Action just,
Have I not wrong'd thee by unkind Distrust?
Believ'd thee false, when Love and Truth were thine,
And all the tender Joys of Friendship mine?
Wretch that I am, my fatal Crime I know,
And merit all the Anger you can show.
Do hate me, loath me, drive me from your Breast,
That Seat of Softness, Innocence, and Rest!

Each in his Proper gloom;
Each in his dark, just place.
The builders of their doom
Hide, each his awful face.

Not less than saints, are they
Heirs of Eternity:
Perfect, their dreadful way;
A deathless company.

Lost! lost! fallen and lost!
With fierce wrath ever fresh:
Each suffers in the ghost
The sorrows of the flesh.

O miracle of sin!
That makes itself an home,
So utter black within,
Thither Light cannot come!

O mighty house of hate!
Stablished and guarded so,
Love cannot pass the gate,