Love sometimes proves herself a wavering spirit,
a watery rainbow in the rushing brook,
music so subdued that none can hear it,
grave-flowers dying while the mourners look.
It strikes out again as though gold were clay,
forgetting such El Dorados no map shows,
and even the prospectors who have their day
come to ruin when the ghost towns close.
Yet have no fears. There is a mother lode,
which destiny holds for you in safe-keeping.
Though your heart be weak, mine is bestowed
where only the soul's fierce flames are leaping.
And if in your traveling, you come up empty,
be fueled by my love, your love consenting.