Shadows (Howe)/At the Heart
HE heart is but a narrow spaceFor paltriness to find a place;But in its precincts there is roomSufficient unto bliss or doom.The certainties, so few, are there,The doubts that feed the soul with care;The passions battling with the willTo guide their liege to good or ill;The saving grace of reverence,The saving hatred of pretence;The sympathy of common birthWith all the native things of earth:The love begun with life, the loveThat years diminish not, nor move;And—more in such a narrow space?—The image of a woman's face.
AT THE HEART
HE heart is but a narrow spaceFor paltriness to find a place;But in its precincts there is roomSufficient unto bliss or doom.The certainties, so few, are there,The doubts that feed the soul with care;The passions battling with the willTo guide their liege to good or ill;The saving grace of reverence,The saving hatred of pretence;The sympathy of common birthWith all the native things of earth:The love begun with life, the loveThat years diminish not, nor move;And—more in such a narrow space?—The image of a woman's face.