Will be supplied, the rest will be the same. I think too much of love, ’tis true: I know It is not all, was ne’er intended so; Yet such a change, so entire, I feel, ’twould be, So potent, so omnipotent with me; My former self I never should recall,— Indeed I think it must be all in all.’ ‘I thought that Love was winged; without a sound, His purple pinions bore him o’er the ground, Wafted without an effort here or there, He came—and we too trod as if in air:— But panting, toiling, clambering up the hill, Am I to assist him? I, put forth my will To upbear his lagging footsteps, lame and slow, And help him on and tell him where to go, And ease him of his quiver and his bow?’ ‘Erotion! I saw it in a book; Why did I notice it, why did I look? Yea, is it so, ye powers that see above? I do not love, I want, I try to love! This is not love, but lack of love instead! Merciless thought! I would I had been dead, Or e’er the phrase had come into my head.’ She also wrote: and here may find a place, Of her and of her thoughts some slender trace. ‘He is not vain; if proud, he quells his pride, And somehow really likes to be defied; Rejoices if you humble him: indeed Gives way at once, and leaves you to succeed.’ ‘Easy it were with such a mind to play, And foolish not to do so, some would say; One almost smiles to look and see the way: But come what will, I will not play a part, Indeed I dare not condescend to art.’ ‘Easy ’twere not, perhaps, with him to live; He looks for more than any one can give: So dulled at times and disappointed; still Expecting what depends not of my will: My inspiration comes not at my call, Seek me as I am, if seek you do at all.’ ‘Like him I do, and think of him I must; But more—I dare not and I cannot trust. This more he brings—say, is it more or less Than that no fruitage ever came to bless,— The old wild flower of love-in-idleness?’ ‘Me when he leaves and others when he sees, What is my fate who am not there to please? Me he has left; already may have seen One, who for me forgotten here has been; And he, the while is balancing between. If the heart spoke, the heart I knew were bound; What if it utter an uncertain sound?’ ‘So quick to vary, so rejoiced to change, From this to that his feelings surely range; His fancies wander, and his thoughts as well; And if the heart be constant, who can tell? Far off to fly, to abandon me, and go, He seems returning then before I know: With every accident he seems to move, Is now below me and is now above, Now far aside,—O, does he really love?’ ‘Absence were hard; yet let the trial be; His nature’s aim and purpose he would free, And in the world his course of action see. O should he lose, not learn; pervert his scope; O should I lose! and yet to win I hope. I win not now; his way if now I went, Brief joy I gave, for years of discontent.’