TOUT POUR L'AMOUR.

By Sophia Margaret Hensley

The world may rage without,

Quiet is here;

Statesmen may toil and shout,

Cynics may sneer;

The great world,— let it go,—

June warmth be March's snow,

I care not,— be it so

Since I am here.

Time was when war's alarm

Called for a fear,

When sorrow's seeming harm

Hastened a tear.

Naught care I now what foe

Threatens, for scarce I know

How the year's seasons go

Since I am here.

This is my resting-place

Holy and dear,

Where pain's dejected face

May not appear;

This is the world to me,

Earth's woes I will not see,

But rest contentedly

Since I am here.

Is't your voice chiding, Love,

My mild career,

My meek abiding, Love,

Daily so near?—

“Danger and loss,” to me?

Ah, Sweet, I fear to see

No loss but loss of thee,

And I am here.