  By Helen Coale Crew I love thee not, Love, though thou'rt called divine! Thou pagan god, whose flashing fires glow But for a season; then the winter's snow No colder lies than ashes on thy shrine. Thou selfish child! Ready to fret and whine When disappointed. Wandering to and fro In quest of joy, from flower to flower dost go Like greedy bee upon a honeyed vine. But thou, Affection, human art, and true! Fitted for every day's most urgent needs; Warm-glowing ever, all the seasons through; Mother of tenderness and selfless deeds. Clear-seeing thou, nor like that other blind; Clear-burning on the hearths of all mankind. |
|
