A dozen paintings on a wall,
A hundred statues standing tall,
A thousand symphonies of might,
A bursting million beams of light—
All are fragile things and few
Next to love in me and you.
The mountains high, the valleys low,
The force of winds that twist and blow,
The massiveness of tides that flow,
The vastness of all stars a-glow—
All are empty, all are nought,
Set against the love we’ve wrought.
The perfect circle, straightest line,
Beside love’s bliss is not so fine;
The song of brook and rambling bird
Not sweeter than Love’s softest word.
All of nature, all of man,
Paled when our love began.
Our hero-flame of love is great;
O’er sea and land and every state
It stands untouched, it has no fate;
It is the measure and the weight,
Start of day, end of night,
Guardian of souls in flight!