Of Such As I Have.

Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake Of some imagined thing which I might be, Some brightness or some goodness not in me, Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake Imagined morns before the morning break. If I, to please you (whom I fain would please), Reset myself like new key to old tune, Chained thought, remodelled action, very soon My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day, Would vanish, and another take her place,-- A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies, A new regard, an unfamiliar face. Love me for what I am, then, if you may; But, if you cannot,--love me either way.

A PORTRAIT.

All sweet and various things do lend themselves And blend and intermix in her rare soul, As chorded notes, which were untuneful else, Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.

Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled, Seems held and folded in by golden noons, While past the sunshine gleams a further world Of deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.

Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray, Like breath of early blooms at morning caught, Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day, Come the fair emanations of her thought.

Her movement, like the curving of a vine, Seems an unerring accident of grace, And like a flower's the subtle change and shine And meaning of her brightly tranquil face.

And like a tree, unconscious of her shade, She spreads her helpful branches everywhere For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid Too many guests shall crowd to harbor there.

For she is kinder than all others are, And weak things, sad things, gather where she dwells, To reach and taste her strength and drink of her, As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.

Why vex with words where words are poor and vain? In one brief sentence lies the riddle's key, Which those who love her read and read again, Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!