FOR A PICTURE BY ROSE CECIL O'NEIL

By Richard Le Gallienne

Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,

Kisses and words — the sweet small prophecies

That run before the Lord of Love: the fain

Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,

All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door

Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this —

The end of all small speech of word or kiss,

And whose strange name is Love — and one name more.

One is this twain past power of speech to tell,

Each lost in each, and each for ever found;

Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;

Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned

In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,

And it is well with them — yea! it is well.