What ’s love, when the most is said? The flash of the lightning fleet, Then, darkness that shrouds the soul,—but the earth is firm to my feet; The rocks and the tides endure, the grasses and herbs return, The path to my foot is sure, and the sods to my bosom yearn. What ’s fame, when the truth is told? A shout to a distant hill, The craigs may echo a while, but fainter, and fainter still; Yet forever the wind blows wide the sweetness of all the skies, The rain cries and the snow flies, and the storm in its bosom lies. What ’s life, what ’s life, little heart? A dream when the nights are long, Toil in the waking days,—tears, and a kiss, a song. What ’s life, what ’s life, little heart? To beat and be glad of breath While death waits on either side,—before and behind us, Death!
When the Most Is Said
More from Poet
-
The Spinner twisted her slender thread As she sat and spun: “The earth and the heavens are mine,” she said, “And the moon and sun; Into my web the sunlight goes, And the breath of May, And the crimson life of the new-blown rose That was born to-day.” The spinner sang in the hush of noon And her...
-
When Psyche’s friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend! But, oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become—her friend!
-
God keep you, dearest, all this lonely night: The winds are still, The moon drops down behind the western hill; God keep you safely, dearest, till the light. God keep you then when slumber melts away, And care and strife Take up new arms to fret our waking life, God keep you through the...
-
When psyche’s friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend! But, oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become—her friend!
-
A breath can fan love’s flame to burning,— Make firm resolve of trembling doubt. But, strange! at fickle fancy’s turning, The selfsame breath can blow it out.