There is an eye that never sleeps
Beneath the wing of the night;
There is an ear that never shuts
When sink the beams of light.

There is an arm that never tires
When human strength gives way;
There is a love that never fails
When earthly loves decay.

That eye is fixed on seraph throngs;
That arm upholds the sky;
That ear is filled with angel songs;
That love is throned on high.

But there's a power which man can wield,
When mortal aid is vain,
That eye, that arm, that love to reach,
That listening ear to gain.

What makes a garden?
Flowers, grass and trees,
Odor, grace and color:
Lovely gifts like these.

What makes a garden
And why do gardens grow?
Love lives in gardens—
God and lovers know!

Others call it love in laziness,
or violence in loveliness,
or affectation on the couchness,
or Won't you ever get up for lunchness,
or I have made an awful mistake, Miss,
or You're prurient, yes you are, Sis,
whereas I prefer beer in beer glassness
and to dwell on the past less.

In old jokes a monarch is referred to as Your Lowness.
Maidens exist, but no one anymore calls them this.
I don't think any less of them. Nevertheless,
this thing you're going to find for us?
It's called love-in-idleness—

You call me cold: you wonder why
The marble of a mien like mine
Gives fiery sparks of Poesy,
Or softens at Love's touch divine.

Go, look on Nature, you will find
It is the rock that feels the sun:
But you are blind,—and to the blind
The touch of ice and fire is one.

Children of the future Age,
Reading this indignant page:
Know that in a former time,
Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.

In the Age of Gold,
Free from winters cold:
Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Once a youthful pair
Fill'd with softest care:
Met in garden bright,
Where the holy light,
Had just remov'd the curtains of the night.

There in rising day,
On the grass they play:
Parents were afar:
Strangers came not near:
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.

Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:

"And Father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he siez'd his hair:
He led him by his little coat,
And all admir'd the Priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
"Lo! what a fiend is here!' said he,
"One who sets reasons up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.'

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

"Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

For years of lonely thought, in morning-tide
Of life, will make a spirit all unfit
To brook of men the waywardness and pride;
Too proud itself to woo, or to submit;
Scorning, as vile, what all adore beside,
And deeming only glorious the soul lit
With the pure flame of knowledge, and the eye
Fill'd with the gentle love of the bright earth and sky.

I love thee, yet I fear. Behold I stand
Before a spotless judge. Thy soul I see,
Holding the balance with a steady hand,
That doth not tremble as thou look'st on me.
Before those light-filled eyes of equity,
Before those features, beautiful, austere,
I cannot stand. How feel thy soul so near
And feel myself unstained, pure, clean and whole?
I love thee,—yea, I love thee,—but I fear
I fear the comment of thy spotless soul.