Love can hear each laudable Thought of the loved made audible, Spoken in wonder, or bliss, or pain, And re-echo it back again; Ever responsive, ever awake, Ever replying with ache for ache.
Earth gives its flowers to us And heaven its stars. Indeed, These are as lips that woo us, Those are as lights that lead, With love that doth pursue us, With hope that still doth speed.
Yet shall the flowers lie riven, And lips forget to kiss; The stars fade out of heaven, And lights lead us amiss-- As love for which we've striven; As hope that promises.
_He laughs, wishing to dispel her seriousness:_
If love I have had of you, you had of me, Then doubtless our loving were over; One would be less than the other, you see; Since what you returned to your lover Were only his own; and--
_She interrupts him, speaking impetuously:_
But if I lose you, if you part with me, I will not love you less Loving so much now. If there is to be A parting and distress,-- What will avail to comfort or reprieve The soul that's anguished most?-- The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive, The love that it has lost. You must acknowledge, under sun and moon All that we feel is old; Let morning flutter from night's brown cocoon Wide wings of flaxen gold; The moon split through the darkness, soaring o'er, Like some great moth and white, These have been seen a myriad times before And with the same delight.-- So 'tis with love--how old yet new it is!-- This only should we heed,-- To once have known, to once have felt love's bliss, Is to be rich indeed.-- Whether we win or lose, we lose or win, Within our gain or loss Some purpose lies, some end unseen of sin, Beyond our crown or cross.
True, true!--Perhaps it would be best To be that star within the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet shining in your own blue eyes.
Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair.
Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth.
These thing I long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality.