.... Write to me, I want: this enchanting trade
Kind outpouring of mind and heart,
The art of conversation without seeing without understanding,
This silent maintenance, so charming and so tender,
The art of writing, Abelard was probably invented
By captive lover and lover restless.
Everything lives by the heat of an eloquent letter,
The feeling he painted under the fingers of a lover,
His heart develops there: it can without blushing
Y put all the fire of sexual desire ...
Alas! our union was legitimate and pure:
We made it a crime, and the sky whisper.

As to some lovely temple, tenantless
Long since, that once was sweet with shivering brass,
Knowing well its altars ruined and the grass
Grown up between the stones, yet from excess
Of grief hard driven, or great loneliness,
The worshiper returns, and those who pass
Marvel him crying on a name that was,—
So is it now with me in my distress.
Your body was a temple to Delight;
Cold are its ashes whence the breath is fled;
Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move;
Here might I hope to find you day or night;
And here I come to look for you, my love,

Friend! let others boast their treasure;
Mine's a stock of true love's pleasure,
Safely cared for, every part,
'Neath that trusty lock, my heart;
Safe from other women's peeping;
For the key's in mine own keeping.
Day by day it grows a little,
Never loses e'en a title;
But through life will ever go,
With Baz Bahadur, weal or woe.

Indeed I must confess,
When Souls mix 'tis an Happiness;
But not compleat till Bodies too combine,
And closely as our minds together join;
But half of Heaven the Souls in glory tast,
'Till by Love in Heaven at last,
Their Bodies too are plac't.

In thy immortal part
Man, as well as I, thou art.
But something 'tis that differs Thee and Me;
And we must one even in that difference be.
I Thee, both as a man, and woman prize;
For a perfect Love implies
Love in all Capacities.

Can that for true love pass,
When a fair Woman courts her glass?

Love in her Sunny Eyes does basking play;
Love walks the pleasant Mazes of her Hair;
Love does on both her Lips for ever stray;
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there.
In all her outward parts Love's always seen;
But, oh, He never went within.

Within Love's foes, his greatest foes abide,
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride.
So the Earths face, Trees, Herbs, and Flowers do dress,
With other beauties numberless:
But at the Center, Darkness is, and Hell;
Their wicked Spirits, and there the Damned dwell.

With me alas, quite contrary it fares;

Oh night of love, your rapt ecstatic hours
Were mine, the languor of their pale perfume
Pervades me, kisses in a fountain-fire,
Surround me,—fetter and consume.

Oh night of love, your groves of strange content
Project a thralldom over coming days;
Exalted, derelict, and blind I wend
Unmindfully along Life's misty ways.

The winter moon is beaming
From her clouded throne on high,
The stars are dimly gleaming
From the borders of the sky,
While wand'ring on the lonely beach,
I list the ocean's roar,
And mark the crested billows reach
The far extended shore;
Or watch the dim discover'd sail
Beyond the breaker's foam,
The laden ship with prosp'rous gale,
Advancing to her home:—
Joyful as she the land espies,
And speeds along the sea,
So joyfully my spirit flies,
To seek its rest with thee.

I mingle in the giddy dance,

Strict as my conscience itself, thou noticest all mine offences:
Therefore I love thee as well as—mine own conscience, at least.

Home's not merely four square walls,
Though with pictures hung and gilded;
Home is where Affection calls--
Filled with shrines the Hearth had builded!
Home! Go watch the faithful dove,
Sailing 'neath the heaven above us.
Home is where there's one to love!
Home is where there's one to love us.

Home's not merely roof and room,
It needs something to endear it;
Home is where the heart can bloom,
Where there's some kind lip to cheer it!
What is home with none to meet,
None to welcome, none to greet us?
Home is sweet, and only sweet,

Whom do you love, she said, when you look out
So far beyond my eyes as our eyes meet?
Is she so like and yet unlike you doubt
If I'm the counterfeit or she's the cheat?
Or is she some one that I never was?
Or what I was and shall not be again?
Back of your eyes I think her image has
Not only longing and much more than pain.

She never had another's face but this,
He laughed and touched her cheek. She moved as you,
And spoke upon your tongue and used your kiss,
And knew the mysteries your wisdom knew,
And had your silence, and was called your name.