Love me not, Dearest, for the smile,
The tender greeting, or the wile
By which, unconscious of its road,
My soul seeks thine in its abode;
Nor say "I love thee of thine eyes,—"
For when Death shuts them, where thy skies?
But love me for my love,
Then am I safe from all surprise,
And thou above
The loss of all that dies.
XIV
Dear hands, forgiving hands,
There is no speech so sure as thing.
Lips falter with so much
To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
But thy least touch
Soul understands.
Dear giving, taking hands,
There are no gifts so free as thine.
One last gem from the heart of the mine,
One last cup from the veins of the vine,
From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
Then poverty, and death!
But thy dear palms
Are richest empty, asking alms.
XV
A little moment at the end
Of day, left over in the candle light
On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
Too small to throw away,
Too poor to keep!
But it holds two words for thee, dear Friend,—
Good-night, Good night!
And so this remnant of the day,
Left over in the candle-light
On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
Becomes too great to throw away,
Too dear to keep!
XVI
Beloved, when I read some fine conceit,
Wherein are wrought as in glass
The features love hath made so sweet,
I marvel at so bold an art;
Seeing thou art too dear to praise
Upon the highway where men pass.
For when I seek
To tell the ways
God's hand of tenderness
Hath touched thine earthly part,
Again I hear
Thy first own cry of happiness,
And, sweetest of God's sounds, the dear
Remonstrance of thy giving heart,—
And cannot speak!
XVII
Across the plain of Time
I saw them marching all night long,—
The endless throng
Of all who ever dared to fight with wrong.
All the blood of their hearts, the prime
And crown of their fleeting years,
All the toil of their hands, the tears
Of their eyes, the thought of their brain,
For a word from the lips of Truth,
For a glimpse of the scroll of Fate,
Ere love and youth
Were spent in vain,
And even truth too late!
Oh, when the Silence speaks, and the scroll
Unrolls to the eye of the soul,
What will it be that shall pay the cost
Of the pain gone waste and the labor lost!
And then, Dear, waking, I saw you—-
And knew.