EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 133 
brave enough to play the game of love quite 
alone with you, but they must get some third 
person or world to countenance them. They 
thrust others between. Love is so delicate and 
fastidious that I see not how it can ever begin. 
Do you expect me to love with you unless you 
make my love secondary to nothing else? Your 
words come tainted if the thought of the world 
darts between thee and the thought of me. 
You are not venturous enough for love. Tt 
goes alone unscared through wildernesses. As 
soon as I see people loving what they see 
merely, and not their own high hopes that they 
form of others, I pity them, and do not want 
their love. Did I ask thee to love me who 
hate myself? No! Love that which I love, 
and I will love thee that loves it. 
The love is faint-hearted and short-lived that 
is contented with the past history of its object. 
It does not prepare the soil to bear new crops 
lustier than the old. 
I would I had leisure for these things, sighs 
the world. When I have done my quilting and 
baking, then I will not be backward. 
Love never stands still, nor does its object. 
It is the revolving sun and the swelling bud. 
If I know what I love, it is because I remem¬ 
ber it. 
Life is grand, and so are its environments of 
