Love is the Symbol of a Sacred Thing
Who scans his pedigree, nor shrinks to trace
Some link unlawful? Yet he had not been
Had this illicit love not taken place,
Or that forbidden face remained unseen.
They who say any love is coarse or light,—
Even the brief caresses of an hour,
The careless kisses of a summer night,—
Condemn the root, not knowing of the flower.
When graceless actions of some casual twain,
Seem but the surge of Youth, the heat of Wine,
His search for Pleasure, or her hope of Gain,
May be the vassals of some vast design.
For who can tell what life may come to birth,
Prophet or Captain of the time to be
As from light seed, flung on the careless Earth
Breaks forth a flower, that scented mystery.
And though from an embrace no fruit may spring
Or from a kiss no spark be kindled, still
Love is the Symbol of a sacred thing,
Through which the Unseen Powers work their Will.
