It's not even a name,
Yet is all constancy;
Tried or untried the same,
It cannot part from me;
A breath yet as still
As the established hill.

It is not any thing,
And yet all being is;
Being, being, being,
Its burden and its bliss.
How can I ever prove
What it is I love?

This happy happy love
Is seiged with crying sorrows,
Crushed beneath and above
Between todays and morrows;
A little paradise
Held in the world's vice.

And there it is content
As careless as a child,
And in imprisonment
Flourishes sweet and wild:
In wrong, beyond wrong
All the world's day long.

This love a moment known
for what I do not know
And in a moment gone
Is like the happy doe
That keeps its perfect laws
Between the tiger's paws
And vindicates its cause.