For Love, without her son, is a weak fool,
The faltering treble of a school-girl’s thought;
She whimpers, daunted, for ’tis hot or cool,
Or that’s there less, or more, than what she sought;
Commutual bliss lives only when they join,
And, hand in hand, pace o’er the conquered lands;
One bides the occasion, stamps the current coin;
The other’s power sows blessings o’er the strands:
She is more weak, more lovely, and more mild;
And he more beautiful, more strong, more calm;
Earth almost blossomed, when just now she smiled;
But earth cried out for joy, feeling his balm:
Divorced, one’s weakness lends the other fuel;
The more love yields, the more is action cruel.