I'll speak it,--"Do not die, love! I am yours" ... No--is not that, or like that, part of words Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right? _I am a painter who cannot paint; In my life, a devil rather than saint; In my brain, as poor a creature too: No end to all I cannot do! Yet do one thing at least I can-- Love a man or hate a man Supremely: thus my lore began. Through the Valley of Love I went, In the lovingest spot to abide, And just on the verge where I pitched my tent, I found Hate dwelling beside. (Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant, Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!) And further, I traversed Hate's grove, In the hatefullest nook to dwell; But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love Where the shadow threefold fell. (The meaning--those black bride's-eyes above, Not a painter's lip should tell!)_ "And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask, 'You have black eyes, Love,--you are, sure enough, My peerless bride,--then do you tell indeed What needs some explanation! What means this?'" --And I am to go on, "without a word-- _So, I grew wise in Love and Hate, From simple that I was of late. Once, when I loved, I would enlace Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face Of her I loved, in one embrace-- As if by mere love I could love immensely! Once, when I hated, I would plunge My sword, and wipe with the first lunge My foe's whole life out like a sponge-- As if by mere hate I could hate intensely! But now I am wiser, know better the fashion How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion: And if I see cause to love more, hate more Than ever man loved, ever hated before-- And seek in the Valley of Love The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove Where my soul may surely reach The essence, naught less, of each, The Hate of all Hates, the Love Of all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,-- I find them the very warders Each of the other's borders. When I love most, Love is disguised In Hate; and when Hate is surprised In Love, then I hate most: ask How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque, Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,-- And how, having hated thee, I sought long and painfully To reach thy heart, nor prick The skin but pierce to the quick-- Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight By thy bride--how the painter Lutwyche can hate!_ JULES _interposes._