Love reckons not by time--its moments of despair
Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear.

Love counts not by the sun--it hath no night or day--
'Tis only light when love is near--'tis dark with love away.

Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or space,
But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place.

Love is its own best law--its wrongs seek no redress;
Love is forgiveness--and it only knoweth how to bless.




THE UNKNOWING

If the bird knew how through the wintry weather
An empty nest would swing by day and night,
It would not weave the strands so close together
Or sing for such delight.

And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking
How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart,
Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching
Within its golden heart.

If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses
Knew of drowned sailors--and of storms to be--