Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.

Love is a Terrible Thing

I WENT out to the farthest meadow,

I lay down in the deepest shadow;

And I said unto the earth, “Hold me,”

And unto the night, “O enfold me,”

And unto the wind petulantly

I cried, “You know not for you are free!”

And I begged the little leaves to lean

Low and together for a safe screen;

Then to the stars I told my tale:

“That is my home-light, there in the vale,

“And O, I know that I shall return,

But let me lie first mid the unfeeling fern.

“For there is a flame that has blown too near,

And there is a name that has grown too dear,

And there is a fear …”

And to the still hills and cool earth and far sky I made moan,

“The heart in my bosom is not my own!

“O would I were free as the wind on wing;

Love is a terrible thing!”