XXIII
“Nay! that were nothing,” say you now,
Poor baby of the weary brow,
Struggling with metaphysic lore?
‘But these, being women, gave you more:
“ You spoke of love!” Indeed I did,
And you must counter me unbid,
Forgetting how we must define
This floral love of yours and mine.
That love and this are as diverse
As Shelley’s poems and my verse.
And now the bright laugh comes in spite
Of all the cruel will can do.
“I take,” you say, “a keen delight
In Shelley, but as much in you.”
There, you are foolish. And you know
The thing I meant to say. O love!
What little lightnings serve to show
Glimpses of all your heart! Above
All, and beneath all, lies there deep,
Canopied over with young sleep,
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