The world makes grave errors in judging these things, Great good and great evil are born in one breast. Love horns us and hoofs us--or gives us our wings, And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best. You must thank your own worth for what I grew to be, For the demon lurked under the angel in me. DAWN. Day’s sweetest moments are at dawn; Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light Kisses the languid lips of Night, Ere she can rise and hasten on. All glowing from his dreamless rest He holds her closely to his breast, Warm lip to lip and limb to limb, Until she dies for love of him. PEACE AND LOVE. There are two angels, messengers of light, Both born of God, who yet are bitterest foes. No human breast their dual presence knows. As violently opposed as wrong and right, When one draws near, the other takes swift flight And when one enters, thence the other goes. Till mortal life in the immortal flows, So must these two avoid each other’s sight. Despair and hope may meet within one heart, The vulture may be comrade to the dove! Pleasure and Pain swear friendship leal and true: But till the grave unites them, still apart Must dwell these angels known as Peace and Love. For only Death can reconcile the two. THE INSTRUCTOR. Not till we meet with Love in all his beauty, In all his solemn majesty and worth, Can we translate the meaning of life’s duty, Which God oft writes in cypher at our birth. Not till Love comes in all his strength and terror, Can we read other’s hearts; not till then know A wide compassion for all human error, Or sound the quivering depths of mortal woe. Not till we sail with him o’er stormy oceans, Have we seen tempests; hidden in his hand He holds the keys to all the great emotions; Till he unlocks them, none can understand. Not till we walk with him on lofty mountains, Can we quite measure heights. And, oh, sad truth! When once we drink from his immortal fountains, We bid farewell to the light heart of youth. Thereafter our most perfect day will borrow A dimming shadow from some dreaded night. So great grows joy it merges into sorrow, And evermore pain tinctures our delight. BLASE. The world has outlived all its passion, Its men are inane and blase, Its women mere puppets of fashion; Life now is a comedy play. Our Abelard sighs for a season, Then yields with decorum to fate. Our Heloise listens to reason, And seeks a new mate.