Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
“Richest gifts are those we make,
Dearer than the love we take
That we give for love’s own sake.
“Well I know the heart’s unrest;
Mine has been the common quest,
To be loved and therefore blest.
“Favors undeserved were mine;
At my feet as on a shrine
Love has laid its gifts divine.
“Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet
With their sweetness came regret,
And a sense of unpaid debt.
“Heart of mine unsatisfied,
Was it vanity or pride
That a deeper joy denied?
“Hands that ope but to receive
Empty close; they only live
Richly who can richly give.
“Still,” she sighed, with moistening eyes,
“Love is sweet in any guise;
But its best is sacrifice!
“He who, giving, does not crave
Likest is to Him who gave
Life itself the loved to save.
“Love, that self-forgetful gives,
Sows surprise of ripened sheaves,
Late or soon its own receives.”
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