In all earth's music, grand, or sweet, or strong,
To hear one name, as if 'twere set in song.

In all my poems, written 'neath the sun,
To find the praises, o'er and o'er, in one.

To feel thyself a lesser part of what
Hadst thou not found, the earth would be as naught.

To think all beauty, perfectness and grace,
As but the shadow of one worshiped face.

With that face's coming, to bask in warmth and light
And with its going to grope, as in the night.

To rather feel a dear hand's stinging blow
Than any caress another might bestow.

To rather sit in gloom, and hear one voice
Than, missing that, on mountain tops rejoice.

To lose all individual hope and aim,
And have no wish, but for another's fame.

To count grief naught, though great, if one is glad.
To feel no joy if that dear one is sad.

Do thy heart strings, responsive, answer this?
Then thou hast known true love in all its bliss.

Poems of Love by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago: M.A.Donohue, 1905.

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