What Is Love?

Not the fierce-destroying power Of the hot sirocco’s breath, Withering every tender flower, Strewing all its path with death Or helpless, silent sorrow. ’Tis a strength that holds each feeling But a slave to do its will— Every wish, abjectly kneeling, Waits its mandate to fulfill Or creeps, by stealth, in shadow. ’Tis Life’s sacred, golden chalice, From as rich a vintage filled For the cottage, as the palace— Sweetest draughts have been distilled With want upon the lever. ’Tis a tender, true devotion, Never soiled by thoughts of pelf, But with gladsome, sweet emotion To its altar bringing self, A sacrificial offering.— Joy’s bell whose silver ringing Down the ages has been borne Ever since in Eden, singing, Wedded love hailed rosy morn— Still the tones fall sweet as ever. ’Tis the Horeb of the spirit, Where no coarse-shod thought may tread, The part divine, which souls inherit From love’s holy Fountain-Head, Influent with our being.