And is the water come? sure 't cannot be;
It runs too much against philosophy:
For heavy bodies to the centre bend;
Light bodies only naturally ascend.
How comes this then to pass? The good knight's skill
Could nothing do without the water's will:
Then 'twas the water's love that made it flow;
For love will creep where well it cannot go.

You shall not love me for what daily spends,
You shall not know me in the noisy street
Where I as others follow petty ends,
Nor when in fair saloons we chance to meet,
Nor when I'm jaded, sick, perplexed, or mean:
But love me then & only when you know
Me for the channel of the rivers of God,
From deep, ideal, fontal heavens that flow,
Making the shores, making their beauty broad,
Which birds & cattle drink, drink too the roots of the grove,
And animating all it feeds with love.

Love planted a rose,
And the world turned sweet.
Where the wheat-field blows
Love planted a rose.
Up the mill-wheel's prose
Ran a music-beat.
Love planted a rose,
And the world turned sweet.

Father, I glory in the name of Son,
Born of Thy Life, the child of Perfect Love.
Grant that by all the world Thy will be done,
As by Thine angels in the heavens above!
Fed by Thy love from heaven from day to day
'T is in Thy name we go—in that we rest—
By Thee forgiven, Father, when we stray,
Strong in Thy strength and by Thy blessing blest.

Thine is the Kingdom and the glory Thine,
And Thine the Power, and what is Thine is mine.

Love came, and round about her played a sense
Of life and heaven, and sweet and sinless sleep,
And plains of golden corn a man might reap
For ever, for there is not any fence,
And powers of thought unresting and intense,
And powers of love majestic,—even as deep
As the blue dim Atlantic, and immense
And lofty and eternal as the steep
Of any Alpine summit crowned with snow;
And powers of passion resolute and wild,
Yet tender as the green and rosy glow
Wherewith the sun, deserting us, has smiled,
And gentle as a summer stream whose flow

O Love Divine, that stooped to share
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
On Thee we cast each earth-born care,
We smile at pain while Thou art near!
Though long the weary way we tread,
And sorrow crown each lingering year,
No path we shun, no darkness dread,
Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!
When drooping pleasure turns to grief,
And trembling faith is changed to fear,
The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!
On Thee we fling our burdening woe,
O Love Divine, forever dear,

The shuttles of the spirit ply
Swiftly between us two
Among the shining filaments that tie
My heart to you.

Threading the crimson woof they race,
Defying mould and moth,
To weave a gift for our most holy place,—
Love's altar cloth.

My loves are bronzes, crystals, porcelains,
Windows aglow like jewelled treasuries,
Hangings of florid, golden argosies,
And salvers brilliant with Venetian stains.
My loves are damosels of ancient reigns,
The old world's troubadour sweet harmonies,
The steed that bounds to Arabic caprice,
The German ballad with its tear refrains,

The ivory-carved piano-keys aflood,
The sounding horn within the forest glade,
The soft aroma from the censer fumed,
The couch of ivory, gold, and sandal-wood,
Where virgin loveliness at last is laid,

AH, HAPPY youths, ah, happy maid,
Snatch present pleasure while ye may;
Laugh, dance and sing in sunny glade,
Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay;
Ye little think there comes a day
('Twill come to you, it came to me)
When love and life shall pass away:
I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Or listless lie by yonder stream,
And muse and watch the ripples play,
Or note their noiseless flow, and deem
That life thus gently glides away—
That love is but a sunny ray
To make our years go smiling by.
I knew that stream, I too could dream,

Love once was like an April dawn:
—Song throbbed within the heart by rote,
And every tint of rose or fawn
—Was greeted by a joyous note.
——How eager was my thought to see
——Into that morning mystery!

Love now is like an August noon,
—No spot is empty of its shine;
The sun makes silence seem a boon,
—And not a voice so dumb as mine.
——Yet with what words I'd welcome thee—
——Couldst thou return, dear mystery!