The tide of love swells in me with such force,
It sweeps away all hate and all distrust.
As eddying straws and particles of dust
Are lost by some swift river in its course.
So much I love my friends, my life, my art,
Each shadow flies; the light dispels the gloom
Love is so fair, I find I have no room
For anything less worthy in my heart.
Love is a germ which we can cultivate--
To grace and perfume sweeter than the rose,
Or leave neglected while our heart soil grows
Rank with that vile and poison thistle, hate.
Love is a joyous thrush, that one can teach
To sing sweet lute-like songs which all may hear.
Or we can silence him and tune the ear
To caw of crows, or to the vulture's screech.
Love is a feast; and if the guests divide
With all who pass, though thousands swell the van,
There shall be food and drink for every man;
The loaves and fishes will be multiplied.
Love is the guide. I look to heights above
So beautiful, so very far away;
Yet I shall tread their sunlit peaks some day,
Since close in mine I hold the hand of love.
Love is the law. But yield to its control
And thou shalt find all things work for the best,
And in the calm, still heaven of thy breast,
That God, Himself, sits talking with thy soul.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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