Truth is within ourselves.

O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.

Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

Night conceals a world but reveals a universe.