Our love wakes with the morning, unafraid
To meet the little worries of the day.
And if a haggard dawn, dull eyed and gray,
Peers in upon us through the window shade,
Full soon love's finger, rosy tipped, is laid
Upon its brow, and gloom departs straightway.
All outer darkness melts before that ray
Of inner light, whereof our love is made,
Each petty trouble and each pigmy care
And those gaunt visaged duties which so fill
Life's path by day, do borrow of love's grace.
Though he be dear alway, and debonaire
In the bright morning best he proves his skill
Lending his lustre to the Commonplace.


Our love looks boldly in the moon's bold eyes.
He has no thing to hide, no thing to fear.
And if the world stands far or hurtles near
He walks alway, serene, without disguise,
Naked and not ashamed beneath the skies.
He does not need dark backgrounds to appear
Radiant, for even through the broad day's clear
Effulgence his supernal beauties rise.
Oh, there be loves that hide till day is done:
Nocturnal loves, like silent birds of prey:
Secretive loves that do not dare rejoice.
Ours is an eagle that can face the sun.
A wholesome love that glories in the day,
And finds a rapture in its own glad voice.


Our love augments in beauty when the night
Shuts in our world between four sheltering walls.
Fair is the day and yet its splendor palls.
Dear are the shadows that obscure the light,
And dear the stars that tiptoe into sight,
And when the curtain of deep darkness falls
Then heart to heart in clearer accent calls
And the whole Universe is Love's by right.
There is no vexing world to interfere,
No sorrow save the all too rapid flow
Of time's swift river sweeping on and on.
We two are masters of this silent sphere.
Love is the only duty that we know--
Our only fear, the menace of the dawn.

Poems of Power by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago : W. B. Conkey, 1902.

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