What is love like? The wind
That tears great temples down?
Ah, no, the cruelest wind
Leaves some few stones behind.

What is love like? The roar
And anger of a tempest-ridden sea?
Ah, no, the angriest sea
Cast back some bits of wreckage to the shore.

The blackbirds fly before the cold,
The painted grosbeaks go;
Not any tanager is so bold
As to brave the snow.

There's a look of storm about the skies,
There's trouble in the west;
And Love, who's old and very wise,
Love flies off with the rest.

An old wife
Someone who appears in the middle of a conversation
A beggar standing at the gate
The officious parent of one's boy favorite
A woman who falls asleep after making love.

Joe hates a Sycophant. It shows
Self-love is not a fault of J OE'S .

Though she depart, a vision flitting,
If I these thoughts in words exhale:
I love you, you blonde maiden, sitting
Within your pure white beauty's veil.
I love you for your blue eyes dreaming,
Like moonlight moving over snow,
And 'mid the far-off forests beaming

I believe in God, Creator,
Shepherd of all human souls;
Not apart and watching Nature,
While her wondrous plan unrolls,
But the Father of our spirits,
And the Moulder of our frames,
Loving each as one begotten,
Calling all by separate names.

I believe his holy Spirit
Fills the earth from shore to shore,
Round about, above, within us,
Bearing witness evermore:
Where that Spirit findeth entrance,
Though it tarry but a night,
Even sordid eyes, beholding,
See the wondrous love and light.

Your wife and your friends may desert you
And call you a — — Rat,
And all the wide world may reproach you;
But your Country will never do that.

You might lose all your faith in what's human
And hate for the present and past.
You may damn it all: Land, Man, and Woman;
But you'll fight for your country at last!

Where may she of the hall bedroom hold the love-hour?
In what sweet privacy find her soul before the face of the beloved?
And the kiss that lifts her from the noise of the shop,
And the bitter carelessness of the streets?
Neither is there garden nor secret parlor for her:
And cruel winter has spoiled the shores of the sea;
The benches in the park are laden with melting snow,
And the bedroom forbidden ...

But ah, the love of a woman! She will not be cheated!
Up the stoop she went to the vestibule of the house,

Love:
To approach you with the touch the sculptor gives his clay,
Subdued, inspired:
To catch in the radiance of my heart the purity of yours,
White breathless fires:
To let the still sea of song in my spirit move toward its shore, your soul,
With dying music: (Oh, hear me, adored one!)

Love:
To watch as one watches the face of the beloved coming out of death,
Every wavering of your lashes:
To feel each fluctuation of your yearning and your desire,
And meet it with caresses:
To enfold you gently until your whole soul slides into mine,

I saw the unwritten face of the child
Beside the mother's trouble-writ face.