Sarah Brown

By Edgar Lee Masters

MAURICE, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.

The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,

The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,

But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous

In the blest Nirvana of eternal light!

Go to the good heart that is my husband

Who broods upon what he calls our guilty love:—

Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for him

Wrought out my destiny — that through the flesh

I won spirit, and through spirit, peace.

There is no marriage in heaven

But there is love.