To give is more than to receive, men say.
But thou hast made them one! What if, some day,
Men bade me render back the gifts I cannot pay,--
Since all were undeserved! should I obey?
Lo, all these years of giving, when we try
To own our thanks, we hear the giver cry;
"Nay, it was thou who givest, Dear, not I."
If Wisdom smile, let Wisdom go!
All things above
This is the truest; that we know because we love,
Not love because we know.


VII

Let it not grieve thee, Dear, that Love is sad,
Who, changeless, loveth so the things that change,--
The morning in thine eyes, the dusk within thy hair,
Were it not strange
If he were glad
Who cannot keep thy heart from care,
Or shelter from the whip of pain
The bosom where his head hath lain?
Poor sentinel, that may not guard
The door that love itself unbarred!
Who in the sweetness
Of his service knows its incompleteness,
And while he sings
Of life eternal, feels the coldness of Death's wings.