If love were but a little thing—
Strange love which, more than all, is great—
One might not such devotion bring,
Early to serve and late:

If love were but a passing breath—
Wild love—which, as God knows, is sweet—
One might not make of life and death
A pillow for love's feet!

I FEEL the shadow on my brow,
The sickness at my heart!
Alas! I look on those I love,
And am so sad to part.

If I could leave my love behind,
Or watch from yonder sky
With holy and enduring care,
I were not loath to die.

But death is terrible to Love:
And yet a love like mine
Trusts in the heaven from whence it came.
And feels it is divine.

Was what you thought love, but passing,
Was it but an idle dream,
But the passion of a moment,
But a bubble on the stream?

Has my lofty ideal fallen,
Do my hopes all shattered lay;
Have I loved once, and then in vain,
Has my idol turned to clay?

Have you won my heart for conquest,
But to cast it off when won;
And to end my bliss so quickly,
When I thought it just begun?

No, I cannot judge you harshly,
Tho' bitter thoughts my heart now fill,
For with all your faults and failings,
Yet, my own, I love you still.

All ministries of love are thine,
Of human love and love Divine;
With wife of more than maiden charms,
And children sheltered in thy arms,
And cure of souls in that vast fold
Whose millions never can be told,
Thou verily art made acquaint,
Beloved priest, with this day's Saint—
Saint Valentine!

Pregnant again with th' old twins hope, and fear,
Oft have I asked for thee, both how and where
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;

As in the streets sly beggars narrowly
Watch motions of the giver's hand and eye,
And evermore conceive some hope thereby.

And now thy alms is given, thy letter is read,
The body risen again, the which was dead,
And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.

After this banquet my soul doth say grace,
And praise thee for it, and zealously embrace
Thy love, though I think thy love in this case

Why , lovely charmer, tell me why,
So very kind, and yet so shy?
Why does that cold forbidding air
Give damps of sorrow and despair?
Or why that smile my soul subdue,
And kindle up my flames anew?

In vain you strive with all your art,
By turns to freeze and fire my heart:
When I behold a face so fair,
So sweet a look, so soft an air,
My ravished soul is charmed all o'er,
I cannot love thee less nor more.

Lilies are both pure and fair,
Growing 'midst the roses there—
Roses, too, both red and pink,
Are quite beautiful, I think.

But of all bright blossoms—best—
Purest—fairest—loveliest,—
Could there be a sweeter thing
Than a primrose, blossoming?

Deaths rude abruptions often comes to part
The closest links that bind the human heart
Love kindred friendship beings all of fate
That like the gorgon knot to seperate
Are cut quite through their close li[n]ks to unchain
Never to join them as a whole again

What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed--
As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening's weed--
As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be--
So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see
The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,
The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay.
Or I may love let slip out of mine entire heart,
So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart!

Last, Stone, a little yet;
And then this dust forget.
But thou, fair Rose, bloom on.
For she who is gone
Was lovely too; nor would she grieve to be
Sharing in solitude her dreams with thee.