LOVE. BY T. K. HARVEY. There are those who say the lover's heart Is in the loved one's merged; O, never by love's own warm art No!-hearts that love hath crowned or crossed, Love fondly knits together; Expanding in the soft bright heat The separate parts to prove, And man first learns how great his heart The loving hearts give back as due The treasure it has found As scents return to him who threw As mirrors show, because they're bright, Reflects the form of love. As he who, wrapt in fancy's dream, Yet deep within the sunlight stream So, looketh through his loved one's eyes, The lover-and amid love's skies It is an ill-told tale that tells Of "hearts by love made one;" He grows who near another's dwells More conscious of his own; In each spring up new thoughts and powers And, turning, grow together. Such fictions blink love's better part, The wells are in the neighbor heart There findeth love the passion flowers Makes honey in another's bowers, Love's life is in its own replies To each low beat it beats, Smiles back the smiles, sighs back the sighs, And every throb repeats. Then, since one loving heart still throws Two shadows in love's sun, How should two loving hearts compose. LOVE. Love is not made of kisses, or sighs, Of clinging hands, or of the sorceries Love is not made of broken whispers. No! As molten metals mingle; as a chord Of thought and passion; these can Love inspire. |