The storm that snapped our fate's one ship in twain Hath blown my half o' the wreck from thine apart. O Love! O Love! across the gray-waved main To thee-ward strain my eyes, my arms, my heart. I ask my God if e'en in His sweet place, Where, by one waving of a wistful wing, My soul could straightway tremble face to face With thee, with thee, across the stellar ring -- Yea, where thine absence I could ne'er bewail Longer than lasts that little blank of bliss When lips draw back, with recent pressure pale, To round and redden for another kiss -- Would not my lonesome heart still sigh for thee What time the drear kiss-intervals must be?
So do the mottled formulas of Sense Glide snakewise through our dreams of Aftertime; So errors breed in reeds and grasses dense That bank our singing rivulets of rhyme. By Sense rule Space and Time; but in God's Land Their intervals are not, save such as lie Betwixt successive tones in concords bland Whose loving distance makes the harmony. Ah, there shall never come 'twixt me and thee Gross dissonances of the mile, the year; But in the multichords of ecstasy Our souls shall mingle, yet be featured clear, And absence, wrought to intervals divine, Shall part, yet link, thy nature's tone and mine.
Look down the shining peaks of all my days Base-hidden in the valleys of deep night, So shalt thou see the heights and depths of praise My love would render unto love's delight; For I would make each day an Alp sublime Of passionate snow, white-hot yet icy-clear, -- One crystal of the true-loves of all time Spiring the world's prismatic atmosphere; And I would make each night an awful vale Deep as thy soul, obscure as modesty, With every star in heaven trembling pale O'er sweet profounds where only Love can see. Oh, runs not thus the lesson thou hast taught? -- When life's all love, 'tis life: aught else, 'tis naught.
Let no man say, `He at his lady's feet Lays worship that to Heaven alone belongs; Yea, swings the incense that for God is meet In flippant censers of light lover's songs.' Who says it, knows not God, nor love, nor thee; For love is large as is yon heavenly dome: In love's great blue, each passion is full free To fly his favorite flight and build his home. Did e'er a lark with skyward-pointing beak Stab by mischance a level-flying dove? Wife-love flies level, his dear mate to seek: God-love darts straight into the skies above. Crossing, the windage of each other's wings But speeds them both upon their journeyings.