The Way Of A Maid

The lover whose soul shaken is

In some decuman billow of bliss,

Who feels his gradual-wading feet

Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet,

And 'mid love's us-ed converse comes

Sharp on a mood which all joy sums--

An instant's fine compendium of

The liberal-leav-ed writ of love;

His abashed pulses beating thick

At the exigent joy and quick,

Is dumbed, by aiming utterance great

Up to the miracle of his fate.

The wise girl, such Icarian fall

Saved by her confidence that she's small,--

As what no kindred word will fit

Is uttered best by opposite,

Love in the tongue of hate exprest,

And deepest anguish in a jest,--

Feeling the infinite must be

Best said by triviality,

Speaks, where expression bates its wings,

Just happy, alien, little things;

What of all words is in excess

Implies in a sweet nothingness,

With dailiest babble shows her sense

That full speech were full impotence;

And while she feels the heavens lie bare,

She only talks about her hair.