And if there were something larger than love--

well--perhaps, then, I might sing its praises,

and write large its name through all the ages--

but all my praise could never be enough.

For what could be the subject of my hymn?

Though I don’t sneer at seekers of fame, nor

at the thirst that makes men parched for war,

nor at gnawing greed, pride or any sin

which loves some souls and others wastes away--

nor do I scorn souls wasted thin that sought

for any creed or any path or god

that might, at last, let them submit and pray--

but all praise would be cheap for what might close

its fist on love, and all this, which love holds.