That stirs in the sun or the rain,

That dazzled or darkened—again.

 Not a wave that stretches its arms, And yearns to the breast of the shore, Is ever the wave that came trusting, And yearning, and loving, before. 

And yearns to the breast of the shore,

And yearning, and loving, before.

 The hope that is high as the heavens, The joy that is keen as pain, The faith that is free as the morning, Can die—but can live not again. 

The joy that is keen as pain,

Can die—but can live not again.

 And though I should step beside you, And hand should reach unto hand, We should walk mutely—stifled— Ghosts in a breathless land. 

And hand should reach unto hand,

Ghosts in a breathless land.

 And what if I should be kind? And though you should be true? The old love could never, never Love on as it used to do. 

And though you should be true?

Love on as it used to do.

 

 

 THORNS. 

 As we pass by the roses, Into your finger-tip Bruise you the thorn. Quick at the prick you start, Crying, "Alas, the smart! Farewell, my pleasant friend, Wisely our way we wend Out of the reach of roses." 

 Oh, we pass by the roses! Where does the red drop drip? Where is the thorn? What though 'tis hid and pressed Piercing into my breast? Scathless, I stretch my hand; Strong as their roots I stand, And dare to trust the roses. 

 

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