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I.
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All love-adepts, all faithful hearts who wear
In love's sweet prime — his hour of blossoming —
The full, harmonious colors of his spring,
O think not when they fail ye shall go bare;
Take heart, his very mourning still is fair,
Ay, tho' the world its hail of pity fling,
Cutting as scorn, no meaner, earthlier thing,
Can match the royal robe of Love's despair!
Put on his weeds, then, ye who fear to sleep,
Because ye fear to wake to grief new-blown;
Rise, bear sweet spices to the grave, and weep
Love's balmy tears, there where by Love o'erthrown,
Death leaves but empty cerements in a heap,
And Love for love still rolls away the stone.
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II.
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Fair friends of Love, who fear to take his pay,
Counting his service loss, his joys too brief,
Too much o'erweighted by his long-drawn grief,
Try his conclusions, ere ye say him nay.
What though his servants walk at close of day,
And hold sad commune o'er some vanished chief,
Not for love's death, but birth of high belief,
Their hearts still burn within them by the way.
They know their love is living, and take shame
That they one moment sought him with the dead;
They feel their love immortal, by the flame
That burns the brighter as it burns unfed.
So weeping, sing Love's praise, who could reframe
The universe whence all but love had fled.
Spectator. Emily Pfeiffer.
January 1877.
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