But love me for my love,
Then am I safe from all surprise,
And thou above
The loss of all that dies.


XIV

Dear hands, forgiving hands,
There is no speech so sure as thing.
Lips falter with so much
To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
But thy least touch
Soul understands.
Dear giving, taking hands,
There are no gifts so free as thine.
One last gem from the heart of the mine,
One last cup from the veins of the vine,
From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
Then poverty, and death!
But thy dear palms
Are richest empty, asking alms.


XV

A little moment at the end
Of day, left over in the candle light
On the shore of dreams, on the edge of sleep,
Too small to throw away,