Beauty Without The Beloved Is A Like

Beauty Without The Beloved Is A Like A Sword Through The Heart.

I Plucked A Honeysuckle Where The Hedge On High Is Quick With Thorn, And Climbing For The Prize, Was Torn, And Fouled My Feet In Quag-water; And By The Thorns And By The Wind The Blossom That I Took Was Thinn'd, And Yet I Found It Sweet And Fair.

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Deep In The Sun-searched Growths The Dragon-fly Hangs Like A Blue Thread Loosened From The Sky: So This Winged Hour Is Dropt To Us From Above. Oh! Clasp We To Our Hearts, For Deathless Dower, This Close-companioned Inarticulate Hour When Twofold Silence Was The Song Of Love.

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.