One has to count the cost. — One cannot win love's sweetness,
One cannot grasp fair love in absolute completeness
Without the pain as well.
The sweetest flowers are those which grow not on the mountains
But at the solemn edge, and sprinkled by the fountains,
Of pain's dim red unfathomable hell.

Oh, not the common love is sweetest, but the passion
Which bindeth soul to soul in mystic sacred fashion
In spite of adverse things.
Without pursuit could love exult in priceless capture?
No soul can know love's deep immeasurable rapture

Is there redemption for the utmost crime
Of having sinned against a love so sweet
It sought the starriest airs with fearless feet
And poured strange fragrance through the fields of time?
May erring man supreme forgiveness meet,
Be raised again, once more God's mountains climb.
Once more the chant of deathless joy repeat
And mix his song with ocean's mighty rhyme?

If all be lost on earth, if hope and love
And health must vanish, are there yet in store
Flowers that shall perish not, but evermore

Yes: there are many loves. — The love that dreams
Of flowers and songs, and weaves within its hair
Leaves fresh from dalliance with youth's mountain-air
And blossoms dainty from the morning's streams.
Love too that mixes with the pale moonbeams
Its mystic tresses. Passion swift and rare:
Love even than the rose's kiss more fair;
Love whose young heart with wildest fancy teems.

But fairer and more beautiful than these
Is just the love that by its very soul
Swears that from starting till the final goal

Of all sweet names that sing in poets' ears
I think thy name is sweetest. Soft and new
It brought before me the broad Southern blue:
My dreams were sweetened by thy girlish years,
And hand in hand with all thy joys and fears
I wandered thine enchanted uplands through,
And saw the sunlight gild the wild " karroo, "
And saw thy lonely sweet eyes fill with tears.

I love the name, — the very sweetest name
It is that heart of poet ever sung.
I love to hear it linger on my tongue
And feel that through the word the heart I claim:

It smote across me with a sudden pang,
The thought that you must die. It shall not be!
If there is soul of passion in the sea
Or in the moon whose white orb used to hang
Above the wild plains where thy spirit sang
Its girlish love-song to infinity, —
If there was love in sun or flower or tree
Or river whose soft voice beside thee rang, —
If there is love in the Unknown Power or me, —

More, more, had I the power, my soul would do. —
Am I content, — till all thy soul is bright
With God's own passionate unearthly light,
And on thy forehead all God's heaven of blue
Set like a jewel? Lo! I would renew
Thy soul, long-lost amid the pathless night, —
Be thine eternal champion in the fight, —
Bring thee from false ends towards love's purpose true.

O love, thou knowest me not! My love hath lightened
From end to end of heaven, and heaven hath brightened;
It is a tender gift: — it is a sword

I Sawe of late a wofull wight,
That wyllow twigges did winde to weare:
Whose face declarde the pensife plight,
Which he through loue did present beare.
He lookte aloft as though he would
Haue clymed to the starry skies,
But still he stood as though he could
Not once lift vp his heauie thies.
His feathered hands he forced forth,
And thyther fayne he would haue fledde,
But wofull man it was no worth,
For all his limmes were lade with ledde.
You are the bright and starrie skye,
I am the man in painefull plight:

Though my love may slender be,
She is plump enough for me.
When I lie upon her heart
Nothing keeps us then apart.

Not through the poet's heart one rapture flows
When love, that rules him to the end, is won.
He wins the raptures of the past, — he knows
The joy of deeds in old-world eras done.

Nor only in fancy, — for each brain contains,
Writ small but clear, the history of the race,
A thousand pleasures and a thousand pains: —
Thought conquers time, and passion baffles space.

The magic touch of woman's hand restores
With thrilling present half miraculous power
The sense of all the past — its sunlit shores,

What are the unions of the present? — poor
And pallid, mere forlorn sick shades of love.
When Beatrice kissed Dante from above
Then first their joy shone, glorious to endure.
The love that death can shorten or obscure
Is not love, — love alone which hath no ending,
For ever towards God's throne on sweet wings tending,
Is love that touching, touches to secure.

The lips of love may touch, the breasts may meet,
And yet there shall be separation after;
God's scorn and all heaven's high tempestuous laughter
May round about such ghosts of lovers beat: —