Love is the impulse which directs the world,

And all things know it and obey its power.

Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled;

The bee that takes the pollen to the flower;

The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast

To fervent kisses of the amorous sun;--

Each but obeys creative Love's behest,

Which everywhere instinctively is done.

All the past is not worth one today.

Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing

Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.

No joy for which thy hungering heart has panted,

No hope it cherishes through waiting years,

But if thou dost deserve it, shall be granted

For with each passionate wish the blessing nears.

Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy being

To chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire.

When both in key and rhythm are agreeing,

Lo! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire.

The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,

Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb:

Essential to thy soul and thy existence--

Live worthy of it--call, and it shall come.

Life is too short for aught but high endeavor.

Black sin is oft white truth, that missed its way.

This world is a vaporous jest at best,

Tossed off by the gods in laughter,

And a cruel attempt at wit were it,

If nothing better came after.

But now I know that there is no killing

A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death.

There is no hushing, there is no stilling

That which is part of your life and breath.

You may bury it deep, and leave behind you

The land, the people that knew your slain;

It will push the sods from its grave, and find you

On wastes of water or desert plain.

The loves of men but vary in degrees--

They find no new expression for the flame.

Keep out of the Past! for its highways

Are damp with malarial gloom;

Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear,

And everywhere moulders a tomb.

Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures,

Finds only a rose turned to dust;

And its storehouse of wonderful treasures

Are covered and coated with rust.

There is a haunting phantom called Regret,

A shadowy creature robed somewhat like woe,

But fairer in the face, whom all men know

By her said mien, and eyes forever wet.

No heart would seek her; but once having met

All take her by the hand, and to and fro

They wander through those paths of long ago--

Those hallowed ways 'twere wiser to forget.

It is a common fate -- a woman's lot --

To waste on one the riches of her soul,

Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot

Repay the interest, and much less the whole.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a large and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow isles of pain.

Immortal life is something to be earned,

By slow self-conquest, comradeship with Pain,

And patient seeking after higher truths.

The longer I live and the more I see

Of the struggle of souls toward the heights above,

The stronger this truth comes home to me:

That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love;

A love so limitless, deep, and broad,

That men have renamed it and called it--God.

Resistless change, when powerless to improve,

Can only mar.

He who prates

Of human nature's baseness and deceit

Looks in the mirror of his heart, and sees

His kind therein reflected.

Love is the only thing that pays for birth,

Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God above

This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,

Pity the hearts that know--or know not--Love!

This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor

Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep.

One moment alone in the garden,
Under the August skies;
The moon had gone but the stars shone on--
Shone like your beautiful eyes.
Away from the glitter and gaslight,
Alone in the garden there,
While the mirth of the throng, in laugh and song,
Floated out on the air.

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