by Helen Hunt Jackson
At my heart's door
Love standeth, like a king beside
His royal treasury, whose wide
Gates open swing, and cannot hide
Their priceless store.
His touch and hold
Its common things to jewels turned;
In his sweet fires the dross he burned
Away; and thus he won and earned
And made its gold.
So rich I find
Myself in service of this king,
The goods we spare, in alms I fling;
And breathless days too few hours bring
Me to be kind,
To souls whose pain
My heart can scarcely dare to greet
With pity, while my own complete
And blessed joy their loss must mete
By my great gain.
Of beauty, and a grace more free,
More soft and solemn depths I see
In every woman's face, since he
Has called me fair.
More true and sure
Each man's heart seems, more firm for right;
Each man I hold more strong in fight,
Since he stands ever in my sight,
So brave, so pure.
More of sun's fire
Than days can use, and more than nights
Can name, of stars with rhythmic lights,
And sweetest singing flocks, whose flights
Can never tire, --
More bloom than eyes
Can reach, or hands to grasp may dare, --
More music in the constant air,
Than each round wave can hold and bear,
Before it dies, --
And more of life
For living, than all death can kill,
More good than evil's utmost will
Can thwart, and peace to more than still
The fiercest strife, --
All these I find
In service of this gracious king;
From goods we spare, such alms I fling;
And pray swift days more hours to bring,
More bonds to bind.
To utter thee, in vain our eyes
Seek tears; and vainly all speech tries;
This thing alone our king denies
In Love's largess.
Roberts Brothers, Boston