The Way Of A Maid

The lover whose soul shaken

In some decuman billow of bliss,

Who feels his gradual-wading

Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet,

And 'mid love's us-ed converse

Sharp on a mood which all joy sums--An instant's fine compendium

The liberal-leav-ed writ of love;

His abashed pulses beating

At the exigent joy and quick,

Is dumbed, by aiming utterance

Up to the miracle of his fate.

The wise girl, such Icarian

Saved by her confidence that she's small,--As what no kindred word will

Is uttered best by opposite,

Love in the tongue of hate exprest,

And deepest anguish in a jest,--Feeling the infinite must

Best said by triviality,

Speaks, where expression bates its wings,

Just happy, alien, little things;

What of all words is in

Implies in a sweet nothingness,

With dailiest babble shows her

That full speech were full impotence;

And while she feels the heavens lie bare,

She only talks about her hair.