She, to Him, IV.

    This love puts all humanity from me;
      I can but maledict her, pray her dead,
    For giving love and getting love of thee—
      Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

    How much I love I know not, life not known,
      Save as some unit I would add love by;
    But this I know, my being is but thine own—
      Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

    And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her
      Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes;
    Canst thou then hate me as an envier
      Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize?
    Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier
      The more it shapes its moans in selfish-wise.