weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.
balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet
stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,
thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous
the blest Nirvana of eternal light!
to the good heart that is my husband,
broods upon what he calls our guilty love:—
him that my love for you, no less than my love
out my destiny—that through the flesh
won spirit, and through spirit, peace.
is no marriage in heaven,
there is love.