Not love that shifts and veers, not love that wanes and passes,
Not love wherewith the light wind woos the fickle grasses
In summer on the lea;
Not love such as the love the wayward springtide brings us
Nor likened to the love June's laughing sweet hand flings us,—
Not such love bring I thee!

I know each passing gleam, each fleeting shadow and light
Within thine eyes, or on thy face or forehead white,
And long—God knows I long!—
To hold thee for mine own: and yet I love thee more

I.

I raised my arms to heaven in agony
 And cried out wildly, “Frail are women fair!
 Their love is as a breath of sunlit air
Or white cloud floating o'er a summer sea.
What is her passion of soul compared to me,
 Me—for the storm-wreaths nestle in my hair
 And I the inexorable anguish bear
Of one whose love outstrips eternity.

“Her love is measured by the sands of time,—
 But mine is as the mountains or the stars:
 It snaps all manacles, it laughs at bars,

Truly it is a deed presumptuous, very daring,
Thus to devise in song a golden frame, preparing
To set therein thy face:
It is as if God gave the rough stern wind the power
To sing for evermore the soul of some white flower
 And this flower's soul before the world to place.

The task is very large.—Love, give thy singer passion
Pure as the sea and sun, that pure strong words may fashion
A frame wherein to place ,
So that the world may see (and never, having met it

On one side youth and beauty infinite
 And on the other weariness extreme
 Of life and life's long spirit-torturing dream
And of the vain wild search for vain delight.
On one side eyes the sun's own glance made bright
 But on the other eyes through which there gleam
 The eyes of sorrows numberless,—no beam
Of sun being there by day, nor moon by night.

When this is so, could any end but one
 Be reached,—could either flee the certain goal,
This —that the weary night should love the sun;
That all my heart should by thy glance be won;

I

I praised the Lord of love who made the world of roses
For his own heart to seek:
Then gave me one white rose that blossoms and uncloses,—
Thy cheek against my cheek!

II.

I praised the Lord who made the soft night fall around me,—
Made star-hosts wax and flee:
Then, since he needed song, with song's wild passion crowned me,—
And with one star-love,—thee!

III.

I praised the Lord who heard the laughter of his daughters
And of the leaves o' the pine

Yes: through me then there passed the power of life immortal.
A revelation came
Sent straight from heaven's far golden high sun-guarded portal:
 A revelation sweet and winged with flame.

I saw new powers of life within my spirit growing:
New pure undreamed-of things
Flashed on my sight with plumes all bright and eyes all glowing
 And new skies' azure gathered in their wings.

Sweet as the skies of some unknown blue-sea-girt island,—
Fresh as the prospect fair

And is not love enough? To give, and give for ever,—
As God spreads light of day
O'er field and flaming hill and forest green and river
And blue soft-laughing bay!

To have the right to love. O man, is not that ample?
To have the right to wake
The soul in woman's eyes: the soul that weak fools trample;
The heart that proud fools break.

To have the right to give love infinite;—a treasure
That cannot pass or fade.
What Fate can hinder me from loving beyond measure,—
From giving strength and aid?

Will there be wooing of thee, as below?
 Must thou be sought for, eagerly pursued,
 Followed through many a wayward woman's mood,
Pierced with love's arrows—sometimes plunged in woe?
Then lifted up more passionate heights to know?
 Is this the story of our love, Gertrude?
 Must even spirit-passion have its food
Of coy reluctance, coldness, fiercer glow?

Oh, kiss me, sweet, and turn aside thy face,
 Thy dear face, laughing—woman art thou yet,
 Though on thine auburn locks the crown be set
Eternal, and heaven's sun smile on thy grace:

I will open my heart to Love and we will glean
The fields together;
Garnering a good harvest.
He shall gather the nations of the world as blossoms
And weave them into a crown,
As little children braid corn-flowers for their curls,
And twine dandelions, with laughter;
As maidens gather roses
Which because of their sweet odor
They place in their bosoms,
Leaving blood upon the thorns.

My soul thrills, even as I think the laburnum
Thrills with April sap, longing to link
Her chain of gold in the love universal.

In the forgiving moonlight, on a marble slab of the morgue
A woman lies, whiter than the marble.
Colder than the moon.
There is a blot upon her.
Has Love turned murderer?
Who has put a blot upon her whiteness?
Has the moon done this or the sun or the stars?
Or the majesty which made sun and moon and earth
And belted Orion?
She were not shamed unless Man shamed her.
And what is man that he
Dare shame the vilest thing that lives?
The beasts of the field have purer knowledge,
Knowing that motherhood for love is sufficient,