Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing

And If God Choose I Shall But Love Thee Better After Death.

The Least Flower, With Brimming Cup, May Stand And Share Its Dew Drop With Another Near.

Do Ye Hear The Children Weeping, O My Brothers?

And Wilt Thou Have Me Fashion Into Speech The Love I Bear Thee, Finding Words Enough, And Hold The Torch Out, While The Winds Are Rough, Between Our Faces, To Cast Light On Each? - I Dropt It At Thy Feet. I Cannot Teach My Hand To Hold My Spirits So Far Off From Myself--me--that I Should Bring Thee Proof In Words, Of Love Hid In Me Out Of Reach. Nay, Let The Silence Of My Womanhood Commend My Woman-love To Thy Belief, - Seeing That I Stand Unwon, However Wooed, And Rend The Garment Of My Life, In Brief, By A Most Dauntless, Voiceless Fortitude, Lest One Touch Of This Heart Convey Its Grief.

Earth May Embitter, Not Remove, The Love Divinely Given; And E'en That Mortal Grief Shall Prove The Immortality Of Love, And Lead Us Nearer Heaven.