LITMIR.BIZ

        Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake

        Of some imagined thing which I might be,

        Some brightness or some goodness not in me,

        Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake

        Imagined morns before the morning break.

        If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),

        Reset myself like new key to old tune,

        Chained thought, remodelled action, very soon

        My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees

        The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,

        Would vanish, and another take her place,—

        A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,

        A new regard, an unfamiliar face.

        Love me for what I am, then, if you may;

        But, if you cannot,—love me either way.

        All sweet and various things do lend themselves

          And blend and intermix in her rare soul,

        As chorded notes, which were untuneful else,

          Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.

        Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled,

          Seems held and folded in by golden noons,

        While past the sunshine gleams a further world

          Of deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.

        Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray,

          Like breath of early blooms at morning caught,

        Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day,

          Come the fair emanations of her thought.

        Her movement, like the curving of a vine,

          Seems an unerring accident of grace,

        And like a flower's the subtle change and shine

          And meaning of her brightly tranquil face.

        And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,

          She spreads her helpful branches everywhere

        For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid

          Too many guests shall crowd to harbor there.

        For she is kinder than all others are,

          And weak things, sad things, gather where she dwells,

        To reach and taste her strength and drink of her,

          As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.

        Why vex with words where words are poor and vain?

          In one brief sentence lies the riddle's key,

        Which those who love her read and read again,

          Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!

        If I were told that I must die to-morrow,

                   That the next sun

        Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow

                   For any one,

        All the fight fought, all the short journey through:

                   What should I do?

        I do not think that I should shrink or falter,

                   But just go on,

        Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter

                   Aught that is gone;

        But rise and move and love and smile and pray

                   For one more day.

        And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,

                   Say in that ear

        Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping

                   How should I fear?

        And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.

                   Do Thou Thy will."

        I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,

                   My soul would lie

        All the night long; and when the morning splendor

                   Flashed o'er the sky,

        I think that I could smile—could calmly say,

                   "It is His day."

        But, if instead a hand from the blue yonder

                   Held out a scroll,

        On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder

                   Beheld unroll

        To a long century's end its mystic clew,

                   What should I do?

        What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,

                   Other than this:

        Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,

                   Nor fear to miss

        The

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