You're keeping secrets under your pillow,
They slither through the gaps in the duck feathers,
Until they reach the cotton barrier,
Trying to claw out at your head,
Ever wondered why you get those migraines?

You've tricked yourself into wearing a halo,
Crocodile tears with an alligators grin,
As fake as the make-up you wear,
A smile and a twirl,
Is that all you think it takes to fool a crowd?

You're not an angel, you can barely fly,
You may see clouds, but your feet are on the ground,
It's only your head that's where you think you are,
Your wings are sown on, and the stitches are weak,
How many have you tricked in total?

You think you've won but I can see the devil in your eyes.
A lingering dark stare, puffy and blood shot,
Claws at the ready, tearing into flesh that knows you well,
A war raging on your tongue when you've been found out,
You think I'm docile to every thought you have?

You seem to forget.

What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.

What would I give for words, if only words would come;
But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:
O, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,
To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
To wash the stain ingrain and to make me clean again.

Because you never yet have loved me, dear,
  Think you you never can nor ever will?
  Surely while life remains hope lingers still,
Hope the last blossom of life's dying year.
Because the season and mine age grow sere,
  Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil,
  Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill
Of roses with the nightingales they hear?
If you had loved me, I not loving you,
  If you had urged me with the tender plea
Of what our unknown years to come might do
(Eternal years, if Time should count too few),
  I would have owned the point you pressed on me,
Was possible, or probable, or true.

Weary and weak,--accept my weariness;
  Weary and weak and downcast in my soul,
With hope growing less and less,
  And with the goal
Distant and dim,--accept my sore distress.
I thought to reach the goal so long ago,
  At outset of the race I dreamed of rest,
Not knowing what now I know
  Of breathless haste,
  Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me;
  One only thing I know, Thy sacred same
Love of me full and free,
  A craving flame
Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.
How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill;
  Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?
Re-energize my will,
  Rebuild my faith;
  I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain;
  I will arise, and smite upon my breast
And turn to Thee again;
  Thou choosest best,
Lead me along the road Thou makest plain.
Lead me a little way, and carry me
  A little way, and listen to my sighs,
And store my tears with Thee,
  And deign replies
  To feeble prayers;--O Lord, I will arise.

What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow:
What are brief? today and tomorrow:
What are frail? Spring blossoms and youth:
What are deep ? the ocean and truth.

They say that God lives very high;
  But if you look above the pines
You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines,
  You never see Him in the gold,
Though from Him all that’s glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold
  Of heaven and earth across His face,
Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace
  Slides down by thrills, through all things made,
Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid
  On my shut lids her kisses’ pressure,
Half waking me at night, and said,
  “Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?”

What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
—Something out of it, I think.

XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.