Who loves his kind, loves bone,
Flesh, play of sinew, shoot
Of sense, the turn of a head,
A voice answering his own:
Who loves a house, loves stone,
Iron, plaster, brick, glass, lead,
Timber hewn off and mute--
And these alone.
Who wins his kind, wins store
Of joys, griefs, memories, brain’s
Diligence, heart’s ease, a share
Of life not his before:
Who gains a house, a core
Of blank and senseless air
Cased up in matter gains--
And nothing more.
Sun may warm stone, awaken
Casement, with farewell kiss
Flush thatch--’tis all a show.
Though man a more unshaken
Diurnal love bestow--
He gains not even this.
And blest are they whose thrall
Hearts can endure this passion,
Hopeless, uncompromised
By aught reciprocal;
Yea, saints emparadised
May love God after this fashion.