The poem
THIS love puts all humanity from me; I can but maledict her, pray her dead, For giving love and getting love of thee-- Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!
How much I love I know not, life not known, Save as some unit I would add love by; But this I know, my being is but thine own-- Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.
And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; Canst thou then hate me as an envier Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier The more it shapes its moans in selfish-wise.