The changeful April sky of chance Some of thy pensiveness serene, That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaver help me! how could I forget That blossoms here as well, unseen, MY LOVE. I. NOT as all other women are II. Great feelings hath she of her own, III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, And ere the next heart-beat, the windhurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there, Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form; The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me. LOVE. TRUE Love is but a humble, low-born thing, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched | And hath its food served up in earthen roof; Against the windows the storm comes The blue lightning flashes, Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still; ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the every-dayness of this workday world, Baring its tender feet to every roughness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty's law of plainness and content; A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home; Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyes spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness, Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the golden mystery of sunset, seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts Of good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. For love is blind but with the fleshly All thy smiles and all thy tears And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, From their teaching it hath taken : Feeling and music move together, Like a swan and shadow ever It hath caught a touch of sadness, It hath tones of clearest gladness, Is |