Whose universal pulses so expand
That any lesser life that therein beats
Should no more dream of this word “jealousy”
Than yonder shining flakes of bloom should be
Jealous, forsooth, of the whole hawthorn tree
That is but one with their own mass of sweets.
And so, at last, through blind, unreasoning grief
Beyond belief,
Brightly within my heart there did uprise
Love’s loyalty, rebuking in this wise: