Our love is not a fading, earthly flower: 
Its winged seed dropped down from Paradise,
And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower,
Doth momently to fresher beauty rise: 
To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
Nor winter’s rattling boughs lack lusty green. 
Our summer hearts make summer’s fulness, where
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen: 
For nature’s life in love’s deep life doth lie,
Love,—­whose forgetfulness is beauty’s death,
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
Into the infinite freedom openeth,
And makes the body’s dark and narrow grate
The wide-flung leaves of Heaven’s own palace-gate.

XXII

IN ABSENCE

These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,
Did I not know that, in the early spring,
When wild March winds upon their errands sing,
Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air,
Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair,
They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks
From icy cares, even as thy clear looks
Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care;
When drops with welcome rain the April day,
My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes,
Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay,
As loath to fall out of those happy skies;
Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May,
That comes with steady sun when April dies.

XXIII

WENDELL PHILLIPS

He stood upon the world’s broad threshold; wide
The din of tattle and of slaughter rose;
He saw God stand upon the weaker side,
That sank in seeming loss before its foes: 
Many there were who made great haste and sold
Unto the cunning enemy their swords,
He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,
And, underneath their soft and flowery words,
Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went
And humbly joined him to the weaker part,
Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content
So he could he the nearer to God’s heart,
And feel its solemn pulses sending blood
Through all the widespread veins of endless good.

XXIV

THE STREET

They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
Dim ghosts of men, that hover to and fro,
Hugging their bodies round them like thin shrouds
Wherein their souls were buried long ago: 
They trampled on their youth, and faith, and love,
They cast their hope of human kind away,
With Heaven’s clear messages they madly strove,
And conquered,—­and their spirits turned to clay: 
Lo! how they wander round the world, their grave,
Whose ever-gaping maw by such is fed,
Gibbering at living men, and idly rave,
‘We only truly live, but ye are dead.’ 
Alas! poor fools, the anointed eye may trace
A dead soul’s epitaph in every face!