Are other lips discreeter?
Are other eyes demurer?
I know no heart is sweeter,
The faith of none is surer.
And, since no love’s more pure than yours,
What boots whose brow is purer?
Are they not fond who think
This love and this love’s praise
To draw in waning ink,
The body’s passing phase;
Is it thus that you and I should waste
The unreturning days?
When earth’s alive with Spring
And hearts nigh break with bliss,
Should I stand forth and sing
Praises as vain as this?
Nay, Love is its own praise, and speaks
Itself in every kiss.
BOYHOOD
He looked awhile at the fields all white
Glistening fair in the soft moonlight;
But the bells tolled forth the heavy midnight.
So he knelt him down beside the bed,
Folded his hands and bent his head,
And the devil smiled at the prayers he said.
