There are three fine devils eating my heart—
They left me, my grief! without a thing;
Sickness wrought, and Love wrought,
And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.
Poverty left me without a shirt,
Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering;
Sickness left me with my head weak
And my body miserable, an ugly thing.
Love left me like a coal upon the floor,
Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.
Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself,
Worse than any curse at all under the sun,
Worse than the great poverty

Blest be the bonds of Christian love
That bind our hearts in one;
Blest foretaste of the bliss above,—
Our heaven on earth begun

Kindred in Christ, our hopes we rest,
Alike on His dear name;
One love inspires each throbbing breast,—
Our covenant-vows, the same

Our prayers from many hearts ascend,—
One cloud before the throne;
Our many grateful voices blend
In one harmonious tone.

So joy for joy, and tear for tear,
And grace for grace is given;
So the glad harvest, ripened here,
Shall crown our love in heaven.

There lies in the center of each man's heart,
A longing and love for the good and pure;
And if but an atom, or larger part,
I tell you this shall endure—endure
After the body has gone to decay—
Yea, after the world has passed away.

The longer I live and the more I see
Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above,
The stronger this truth comes home to me:
That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love;
A love so limitless, deep, and broad,
That men have renamed it and called it—God.

And nothing that ever was born or evolved,

O yes, we mean all kind words that we say,
To old friends and to new;
Yet doth this truth grow clearer day by day,
We love but few.

We love! we love! what easy words to say,
And sweet to hear,
When sunrise splendor brightens all the way,
And far and near

Is breath of flowers, and caroling of birds,
And bells that chime,—
Our hearts are light, we do not weigh our words
At morning time.

But when the matin-music all is hushed,
And life's great load
Doth weigh us down, and thick with dust
Doth grow the road,

The roses climbed the garden wall,
And blushed in sweet profusion;
From blooming boughs the birds let fall
A musical confusion.
The twilights there were fine and sweet,
And fair the summer weather,
And she who made my world complete
Sweeter than all together.

The evening star shone overhead;
The grass with dew-drops glistened;
One scarce had heard the words we said
Who jealously had listened:
Love's language is not writ, I wot,
Only in tender speeches;
By many a smile or glance 'tis taught,
That through the ages reaches!

Ballad , since Love himself hath fashioned thee
Within my mind where he doth make abode,
Hie thee to her who through mine eyes bestow'd
Her blessing on my heart, which stays with me.

Since thou wast born a handmaiden of Love,
With every grace thou shouldst be perfected,
And everywhere seem gentle, wise, and sweet.
And for that thine aspect gives sign thereof,
I do not tell thee, ‘Thus much must be said:’—
Hoping, if thou inheritest my wit,
And com'st on her when speech may ill befit,
That thou wilt say no words of any kind:

Oh, give me, Lord, Thy love for souls,
For lost and wand'ring sheep,
That I may see the multitudes
And weep as Thou dost weep.
Help me to see the tragic plight
Of souls far off in sin;
Help me to love, to pray, and go
To bring the wand'ring in.

Take Thou some flaming coals,
From off the altar of thy heart
To touch my life and give me, Lord,
A heart that's hot for souls.
O Fire of Love, O Flame Divine,
Make Thy abode in me;
Burn in my heart, burn evermore,
Till I burn out for Thee.

Fly away, fly away, over the sea,
Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done.
Come again, come again, come back to me,
Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.

Out I came from the dancing-place,
The night-wind met me face to face,—

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen,
“I know,” it whistled, “where thou hast been.”

A faint voice fell from the stars above—
“Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!”

I found when I reached my lonely room
A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear,
For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

“Say, where is the maiden sweet,
Whom you once so sweetly sung,
When the flames of mighty heat
Filled your heart and fired your tongue?”

Ah, those flames no longer burn,
Cold and drear the heart that fed;
And this book is but the urn
Of the ashes of love dead.