DEAR LOVE TO THEETO R. G. B. P.
Thou sayest—"a sonnet to the morning air,"But equally, dear love, 'twill sing its praise to thee.As all exquisite beauty means to meA phase of thy dear self, so all things fair,Depths, breadths, of life, and the fresh morning air,—As thou art the all-giving, the most freeOf all God's creatures,—even giving meIn thy divine creative love a share.
For thou art woman, all-surrounding one;In the maternity of thy dear breastThe turmoil of the factions shall find rest,—'Tis thus with love divine thy work is done.Woman, thou art the moon, thou art the sun;In thee, dear love, all things of life are one.
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