We shrink and shrivel, in the flames
That low desire ignites and feeds,
And grudge the debt that duty claims.

Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep!
Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress,
And all the shams o'er which we weep,
And, toward our native nothingness,
To drop ten thousand fathoms deep!

At morning only--strong, erect--
We face our mirrors not ashamed;
For then alone we meet unflecked
The image we at evening blamed,
And find refreshed our self-respect.

Ah! little wonderment that those,
Who see us most and love us best,
Find that a true affection grows
The more when, in its parted nest,
It spends long hours in lone repose!

Our fruit grows dead in pulp and rind
When seen and handled overmuch;
The roses fade, our fingers bind;
And with familiar kiss and touch
The graces wither from our kind.

Man lives on love, at love's expense,
And woman, so her love be sweet;