Love!—that love which comes so stealthily,
And takes us up, and twists us as it will—
What fever'd hours of agony 'twill bring!
How oft we wake and cry: “God set me free
Of love—to never love again!” And still
We fall, and clutch it by the knees, and cling
And press our lips—and so, once more are glad!

And if it go, or if it never come,
Through what a grieving wilderness of pain
We travel on! In prisons stripped of light
We blindly grope, and wander without home.
The friendless winds that sweep across the plain—

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close — at last — at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled, —
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth, —
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth, —
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,

Last night, in the garden—no stir of leaves—
A firefly, twinkling from spray to spray,
Flew to my lips, and I brushed it by.
Now at dawn the voice of my love grieves;
“Last night, dreaming I was a firefly,
I flew to your lips, and you brushed me away.”

No bird hath ever lifted note so clear,
Or poured so prodigal his lyric breast,
But carried still some music from the nest,
When Winter laid the seal of silence there.
No sea hath ever woo'd the shore so fair
But turn of tide left something half expressed;
Nor true love every burned so strangely blest
That words could hold it all or heart could hear.

And yet the tide will turn again, and tell
Its sweet persistent story o'er and o'er —
The bird take up the cadence where it fell,
And pipe it towards the ending more and more —

Far off in the dim and desolate Past,—
That shoreless and sorrowful sea
Where wrecks are driven by wave and blast,
Shattered, sunken, and lost, at last,
Lies the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Long ago broken for me!

My loves were Glory and Pride and Art,—
Ah, dangerous rivals three!
Sweet lips might quiver and warm tears start:
Should an artist pause for a woman's heart,—
Even that which was broken for me?
Poor heart!
Too rare to be broken for me!

O, she was more mild than the summer wind,

1.

An Age in her Embraces past,
Would seem a Winters day;
Where Life and Light, with envious hast,
Are torn and snatch'd away.

2.

But, oh how slowly Minutes rowl,
When absent from her Eyes
That feed my Love, which is my Soul,
It languishes and dyes.

3.

For then no more a Soul but shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by absence made

The love of a woman is sweet;
In life I have fondled a few,
Have felt the red blood as it beat
The uttermost arteries through.
Yet God in His wisdom divine,
Yet God in His infinite plan,
Made nothing as holy and fine
As the love of a man for a man.

There was one with the dark in her hair,
There was one with the dawn in her eyes,
There was one who had kisses to spare —
For never a memory dies.
But, maids, you were nothing but maids;
You passed, as the waters that ran.
For what are the angels or jades

I know my love is seeking me
As restless rivers seek the sea,
Across the nights, across the days
That snare the intervening ways.

I know my love is seeking me
As Time must seek Eternity,
When nights are very still I hear
His footsteps, coming, coming near!

Springtime and buds ablow,
Dew on the posies,
Two down the greening go,
Watched by the roses;

I know what love is, —
Yes, I know what 't is!
When dew and blossom kiss,
I know what love is!

His hand slips into mine, —
What heart could chide us?
One kiss, just one, life's wine.
What can betide us?

I know what love is, —
Yes, I know what 'tis!
When dew and blossom kiss,
I know what love is!

Tell it, ah! bird or bee,
Springtime's first lover,
Tell it to him and me,
Tell it all over;

I

PLANTING

Wild plum blossoms on the roadside,
Peach blows on the waking boughs;
Daring whistlers trying pipe notes
Far above the resting plows.

Partridge calling in the woodland,
Budding willow, whispering reed,
Bordering the fallow furrow,
Waiting for the cotton seed.

Strong and black the droning negroes,
Following the even drills,
Flinging out the seed of promise
To the idle, sleepy mills.

Love a-bud with other flowers,
Love a-bloom, as others sow,