Too Much

There are who die without love, never seeing
The clear eyes shining, the bright wings fleeing.
Lonely they die, and ahungered, in bitterness knowing
They have not had their share of the good there was going.

There are who have and lose love, these most blessed,
In joy unstained which they have once possessed,
Lost while still dear, still sweet, still met by glad affection,—
An endless happiness in recollection.

And some have Love’s full cup as he doth give it—
Have it, and drink of it, and, ah,—outlive it!
Full fed by Love’s delights, o’erwearied, sated,
They die, not hungry—only suffocated.