Love Song

I ask not, “Is thy hope still sure, Thy love still warm, thy faith secure?” I ask not, “Dream’st thou still of me? — Longest alway to fly to me?” — Ah, no — but as the sum includeth all The good gifts of the Giver, I sum all these in asking thee, “O sweetheart, how’s your liver?” For if thy liver worketh right, Thy faith stands sure, thy hope is bright, Thy dreams are sweet, and I their god, Doubt threats in vain—thou scorn’st his rod. Keep only thy digestion clear, No other foe my love doth fear. But Indigestion hath the power To mar the soul’s serenest hour — To crumble adamantine trust, And turn its certainties to dust — To dim the eye with nameless grief — To chill the heart with unbelief — To banish hope, & faith, & love, Place heaven below & hell above. Then list — details are naught to me So thou’st the sum-gift of the Giver — I ask thee all in asking thee, “O darling, how’s your liver?”