I brought back not alone what books could give,
But in myself a sense of others’ wants,—
For in my heart a wondrous wealth of love;
Ay, wealth it was; though, like the ore in mines,
It only proved that that which lived had died.
What though my life, complete with her alone,
Seem’d always rent? a weight of broken quartz
That only gleam’d where it had fractur’d been?
That weight was wealth that sparkled back to greet
Each glance of sunshine.