Sarah BrownMaurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturousIn the blest Nirvana of eternal light!Go to the good heart that is my husbandWho broods upon what he calls our guilty love:—Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for himWrought out my destiny—that through the fleshI won spirit, and through spirit, peace.There is no marriage in heavenBut there is love.
Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturousIn the blest Nirvana of eternal light!Go to the good heart that is my husbandWho broods upon what he calls our guilty love:—Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for himWrought out my destiny—that through the fleshI won spirit, and through spirit, peace.There is no marriage in heavenBut there is love.