Love

Love is the sunlight of the soul,     That, shining on the silken-tressd head     Of her we love, around it seems to shed     A golden angel-aureole.     And all her ways seem sweeter ways     Than those of other women in that light:     She has no portion with the pallid night,     But is a part of all fair days.     Joy goes where she goes, and good dreams,     Her smile is tender as an old romance     Of Love that dies not, and her soft eyes glance     Like sunshine set to music seems.     Queen of our fate is she, but crowned     With purple hearts-ease for her womanhood.     There is no place so poor where she has stood     But evermore is holy ground.     An angel from the heaven above     Would not be fair to us as she is fair:     She holds us in a mesh of silken hair,     This one sweet woman whom we love.     We pray thee, Love, our souls to steep     In dreams wherein thy myrtle flowereth;     So when the rose leaves shiver, feeling Death     Pass by, we may remain asleep:     Asleep, with poppies in our hands,     From all the world and all its cares apart,     Cheek close to cheek, heart beating against heart,     While through Lifes sandglass run the sands.