Love

It wastes not amongst the common weeds

Endless needs empty like night-soil

Its fair freedom falls not foul in sentiment droppings

Concealed in this excrement lies a vital seed

Of love that needs no hothouse

No pansy this wild-rose

nor in button-hole wedded

It demands nothing in return

Thriving in heart lands open

Scattering its fragrance

Come severing storm or blissful breeze

Love grows.