XLIII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's
faith.
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
THE LATEST DECALOGUE
Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honor thy parents: that is, all
From whom advancement may befall;
Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
10
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it's so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet, but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.
Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 5
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 15 But westward, look, the land is bright.
(1862)
LIFE IS STRUGGLE
To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain,
And give oneself a world of pain;
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot,
Imperious, supple - God knows what,
For what's all one to have or not;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
For 't is not joy, it is not gain,
It is not in itself a bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us all alive.
To say we truly feel the pain,
And quite are sinking with the strain;
Entirely, simply, undeceived,
Believe, and say we ne'er believed
The object, e'en were it achieved,
A thing we e'er had cared to keep;
With heart and soul to hold it cheap,
And then to go and try it again;
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain!
O, 't is not joy, and 't is not bliss,
Only it is precisely this
That keeps us still alive.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
Suggested by a picture by Mr. Romney
This relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen,
As a bride.
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