Let such pure hate still underprop by Henry David Thoreau
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers."
Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other's conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence.
We'll one another treat like gods, And all the faith we have In virtue and in truth, bestow On either, and suspicion leave To gods below.
Two solitary stars-- Unmeasured systems far Between us roll; But by our conscious light we are Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?-- Love can afford to wait; For it no hour's too late That witnesseth one duty's end, Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use, More than the tints of flowers; Only the independent guest Frequents its bowers, Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it; But kinder silence doles Unto its mates; By night consoles, By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue? What hearest ear of ear? By the decrees of fate From year to year, Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns; No trivial bridge of words, Or arch of boldest span, Can leap the moat that girds The sincere man.
No show of bolts and bars Can keep the foeman out, Or 'scape his secret mine, Who entered with the doubt That drew the line.
No warder at the gate Can let the friendly in; But, like the sun, o'er all He will the castle win, And shine along the wall.
There's nothing in the world I know That can escape from love, For every depth it goes below, And every height above. It waits, as waits the sky, Until the clouds go by, Yet shines serenely on With an eternal day, Alike when they are gone, And when they stay.
Implacable is Love-- Foes may be bought or teased From their hostile intent, But he goes unappeased Who is on kindness bent.