The wilting flower
in the heart
of one whose love
has died and gone
in the end fades
utterly—
down to its very hue.

Well reason they, who from the birds, and flowers
Would prove that God is all a God of Love;
For feelings, that transcend e'en reason's powers,
To all mankind the same great doctrine prove.
'Tis true the fire, and tempest work his will,
Yet not in wrath, but for the good of man;
What seems to us with tear-dimmed eyes but ill,
Is still a part of one all-perfect plan!
The good of man, this is the gracious end,
For which all things were made on earth, in heaven;
To this alone forever do they tend,
For this alone to man were all things given;

Love , the defier, and Time, the defied,
Wrestled for sway, being equals in pride;
Love with his arrows about him as now;
Time with the dust of the stars on his brow.

Fate, intervening, gave rightful award:
“Time shall be vassal and Love shall be lord.”
And thus at her bidding they ended their feud,
Love, the subduer, and Time, the subdued.

Now let us unto some fair Medow goe
That wee to other, our love may show
And there let us in union dwell
That none may us in good excell.

As love
that is
each day upon the twig
which may die
So springs your love
fresh up
lusty for the sun
the bird's companion—

You gave me roses, love, last night,
When the sea was blue and the skies were bright;
And the earth was aglow with a golden light
When you gave me roses, love, last night.

Lilies I lay by your side to-day,
And your face—it is colder and whiter than they;
And I linger and listen and wonder and pray,
As I bring you lilies to-day.

Adown the pretty purling stream
The little Loves may loll and dream;
And please, and prune themselves with care,
And fancy Virtue lodges there.
The soft Affections thus, and strong,
Adown life's current glide along;
And all-appeas'd and uncontroul'd,
Awhile their equal measure hold
Till sailing farther on the deep,
Or mounting Virtue's lofty steep,
The pretty system sinks away,
The little loves, and smiles decay.
Unnumber'd waves and storms we find
To raise—not to depress the mind,
The conscious mind, which dares endure,

He is a heart,
An acorn from the oakwood.
He is young.
A kiss for him!

Why should the living need my oil?
I see them, and their eyes are blest.
No. For those others I must toil:
I toil to set the dead at rest.

Yet when I watch in solemn tides
The drifting crowds, each life a ghost,
I mourn them, for their truth abides;
Nor is one loved, till he is lost.

Why should the living need my oil?
I see them, and their eyes are blest.
No. For those others I must toil:
I toil to set the dead at rest.

Yet when I watch in solemn tides
The drifting crowds, each life a ghost,

I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,