There is a sort of love That boasts not; neither does it wear Disguised as love, the glove Of subtle hate, unreasoned fear Of man possessed by man. Another sort there is That feigning love, pretends to swell The heart in passioned bliss, "They loved not wisely but too well." Its tragic epigram. Let's tear aside the veil Of jumbled speech. This life may mean A much or less of Hell Or Heaven, as you will. I've been In both, so I should know. So if I, thinking, praise thee And, thoughtful, choose thy gloried ways As wherewithal to raise me, Know then that hate has left my days For love's sustaining glow. |