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They are complete: their work is done. So let
them sleep in endless rest. Love's life is only here begun, nor is, nor can be,
fully blest; It has no room to spread its wings, amid this crowd
of meaner things.
Just for the very shadow thrown upon its sweetness here below,
The cross that it must bear alone, and bloody baptism of woe,
Crowned and completed through its pain, we know that it shall rise again.
So if its flame burn pure and bright, here, where
our air is dark and dense, And nothing in this world of night lives with a
living so intense; When it shall reach its home at length—how bright
its light! how strong its strength!
And while the vain weak loves of earth (for such
base counterfeits abound) Shall perish with what gave them birth—their
graves are green and fresh around,
No funeral song shall need to rise, for the true Love that never dies.
If in my heart I now could fear that, risen again,
we should not know What was our Life of Life when here—the hearts
we loved so much below; I would arise this very day, and cast so poor a thing
But Love is no such soulless clod: living, perfected
it shall rise Transfigured in the light of God, and giving glory
to the skies: And that which makes this life so sweet, shall render
Heaven's joy complete.
LACE your hands in mine, dear,
Ah! with just such smiling
Unbelieving eyes, Years ago I heard it:—
You shall be more wise.
You have one great treasure, Joy for all your life;
Do not venture all, child, In one frail, weak heart;
Where your soul is tempted
There, with double caution,
Measure all you give—still
Love for love: so placing
Treasure love; though ready
In your fondest trust, keep
Build on no to-morrow;
Love has but to-day: If the links seem slackening,
Cut the bond away.
Trust no prayer nor promise;
Words are grains of sand: To keep your heart unbroken,
Hold it in your hand.