By Anna Hempstead Branch
I love thee, sweet, because thou art so sure,
Beautiful always. Never a mood of ours
Has touched thine eyes with sorrow. Thou dost endure
Tranquil amid thy sunshine and thy showers,
And thou art rich and delicate and pure,
Serene as Heaven dallying among flowers.
A solace amid woe is this to me,
That though we perish, still the world is fair.
We cannot, by lamenting, darken thee,
Nor with our tears wash out thy beauty rare.
Still shall a violet evening please the sea,
And a pale splendor satisfy the air.