And I shall find some girl perhaps, And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true. And I daresay she will do. *Love* Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Where that comes in that shall not go again; Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate. They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking, And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost. Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder, Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most. Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder, But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss. All this is love; and all love is but this. *The Busy Heart* Now that we’ve done our best and worst, and parted, I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend. (O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted) I’ll think of Love in books, Love without end; Women with child, content; and old men sleeping; And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain; And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping; And the young heavens, forgetful after rain; And evening hush, broken by homing wings; And Song’s nobility, and Wisdom holy, That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things, Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly, One after one, like tasting a sweet food. I have need to busy my heart with quietude. *He Wonders Whether to Praise or to Blame Her* I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over, But if to praise or blame you, cannot say. For, who decries the loved, decries the lover; Yet what man lauds the thing he’s thrown away? Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught, The more fool I, so great a fool to adore; But if you’re that high goddess once I thought, The more your godhead is, I lose the more. Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever! Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you! Most fair,—the blind has lost your face for ever! Most foul,—how could I see you while I kissed you? So ... the poor love of fools and blind I’ve proved you, For, foul or lovely, ’twas a fool that loved you. *Hauntings*