Her love is true I know,
Much more true
Than angel’s love;
For angels love in heaven
Where a thousand harps
Are playing.

She loves in a tenement
Where the only music
She hears
Is the cry of street car brakes
And the toot of automobile horns
And the drip of a kitchen spigot
All day.
Her love is true I know.

Ask me why I love you, dear, 

    And I will ask the rose 

Why it loves the dews of Spring 

     At the Winter’s close; 

Why the blossoms’ nectared sweets 

     Loved by questing bee,—

I will gladly answer you, 

     If they answer me. 

Ask me why I love you, dear, 

    And I will ask the flower

Why it loves the Summer sun, 

    Or the Summer shower; 

I will ask the lover’s heart

     Why it loves the moon, 

Or the star-besprinkled skies

     In a night in June. 

Ask me why I love you, dear, 

    I will ask the vine 

Why its tendrils trustingly 

    Round the oak entwine; 

Why you love the mignonette

    Better than the rue,—

If you will but answer me, 

    I will answer you. 

Ask me why I love you, dear, 

    Let the lark reply, 

Why his heart is full of song

   When the twilight’s nigh; 

Why the lover heaves a sigh

    When her heart is true; 

If you will but answer me,

    I will answer you. 

I Know my love is true,
    And oh the day is fair.
The sky is dear and blue,
The flowers are rich of hue,
    The air I breathe is rare,
    I have no grief or care;
For my own love is true,
    And oh the day is fair.

My love is false I find,
    And oh the day is dark.
Blows sadly down the wind,
While sorrow holds my mind;
    I do not hear the lark,
    For quenched is life's dear spark,—
My love is false I find,
    And oh the day is dark!

For love doth make the day
    Or dark or doubly bright;
Her beams along the way
Dispel the gloom and gray.
    She lives and all is bright,
    She dies and life is night.
For love doth make the day,
    Or dark or doubly bright. 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely way,
Close by a path none ever chose,
And there I lingered day by day.
Beneath the sunshine and the show’r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by hour,
And storing it within my heart,
        Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and grew.

I dreamed that you were a bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened song.
You brushed my petals with a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of my heart;
        And then I knew
That I had waited there for you.