By E. J. B.

LOVE came to me in unfamiliar guise,
Not with gay looks and laughter-lighted eyes,
But with grave mien and unaccustomed speech.
“O Child,” she murmured, “thee I fain would reach.
Haste need of Love? Wilt take Me to thine heart?”
“Whence, hence!” I said; “I need thee not. Depart!
Thou art not Love, for Her full well I know.
Leave me to dream of Her”; and slowly so
Love turned, and smiled, and left me.

Love came again. She scourged me—scourged me more;
She stripped my Soul—away its trapping tore;
Left me no ribbon to conceal its shame,
And then She spoke, and whispered soft my name—
“Don’t need Me yet, poor Soul?” she said. “Art chill?
Ask of Me then, and thou shalt have thy fill!”
“Nay, nay,” I shrieked. “Thou art hateful to my sight,
Begone!”—and so I turned me from the Light.

“Give back,” I moaned, “the vesture Thou hast torn;
My Soul is naked as a babe newborn.”
“Nay then,” said Love, “such rags will not accord
With Soul newborn, that takes Me for its Lord!”
And then Love took me in Her young embrace,
And clothed me with Herself, and kissed my face,
And taught me magic words of hidden power,
And gave me LIFE. And from that sacred hour
Great Love hath never left me.

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