One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
       Will fill my soul with music and with song;
     And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
       The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.

     And oftentimes you think me childish—­weak—­
       When at some thoughtless word the tears will start;
     You cannot understand how aught you speak
       Has power to stir the depths of my poor heart.

     I cannot help it, dear,—­I wish I could,
       Or feign indifference where I now adore;
     For if I seemed to love you less you would,
       Manlike, I have no doubt, love me the more.

     ’Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
       A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove
     That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
       While fickle natures win the deeper love.

     [Illustration:]

     [Illustration:  COMMON LOT]

     INDIVIDUALITY.

     O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
       Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
     Better than I love my beloved art,
       Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone,
     My king, my master.  Since I saw your face
     I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.

     I am as weak as other women are: 
       Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb;
     Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far. 
       Sometimes I think there is not space or room
     In all the earth for such a love as mine,
     And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

     I know that your desertion or neglect
       Could break my heart, as women’s hearts do break. 
     If my wan days had nothing to expect
       From your love’s splendor, all joy would forsake
     The chambers of my soul.  Yes, this is true. 
     And yet, and yet—­one thing I keep from you.

     There is a subtle part of me, which went
       Into my long pursued and worshipped art;
     Though your great love fills me with such content
       No other love finds room now, in my heart. 
     Yet that rare essence was my art’s alone. 
     Thank God, you cannot grasp it; ’tis mine own.

     Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,
     With that vast love, as passionate as tender,
     I feel an exultation as I know
     I have not made you a complete surrender. 
     Here is my body; bruise it, if you will,
     And break my heart; I have that something still.

     You cannot grasp it.  Seize the breath of morn
       Or bind the perfume of the rose, as well. 
     God put it in my soul when I was born;
       It is not mine to give away, or sell,
     Or offer up on any altar shrine. 
     It was my art’s; and when not art’s, ’tis mine,