And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

Make witness, here, between the good and bad,

As now these tears come—falling hot and real?

A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully

Looks backward on the tedious time he had

I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.

Who camest to me when the world was gone,

This said,—he wished to have me in his sight

Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,

On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,

As he, in his swooning ears, the choirs Amen.

My soul with satisfaction of all wa九九藏書nts:

And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee

To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,

Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte

And I who looked for only God, found thee!

XXIX

Instead of men and women, years ago,

Because Gods gifts put mans best dreams to shame.

As if Gods future thundered on my past.

Yet I wept for it!—this, . . . the papers light . . .

But soon their trailing purple was not free

Shines out again, as all the angels see,

With Iying at my heart that beat too fast.

Belov九_九_藏_書ed, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,

As river-water hallowed into fonts),

Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all

XXVII

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

And I myself grew faint and blind below

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.

From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,

Refer the cause?—Beloved, is it thou

Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,

And yet they seem alive and quivering

A sweeter music than they played to me.

For my souls eyes? Will that light come again,

My own Beloved, wｒead.99csw.ｃｏｍho hast lifted me

I lived with visions for my company

Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly

Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite

Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

As one who stands in dewless asphodel

Except the straggling green which hides the wood.

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How

XXVIII

Met九*九*藏*書 in thee, and from out thee overcame

Of this worlds dust, their lutes did silent grow,

May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,

Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,

XXVI

Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,

Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee

I do not think of thee—I am too near thee.

Too vehement light dilated my ideal,

Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,

In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,

The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when

This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled

I see thine image through my tears to-night,

I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud

If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed

Drop heavily down,—burst, shattered, everywhere!

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

Put out broad leaves, and soon there s nought to see

XXX

And breathe within thy shadow a new air,

Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,