PARACLETE

Tongue hath not told it,

Heart hath not known;

Yet shall the bough swing

When it hath flown.

Dreams have denied it,

Fools forsworn:

Yet it hath comforted

Each man born.

Once and again it is

Blown to me,

Sweet from the wild thyme,

Salt from the sea;

Blown thro’ the ferns

Faint from the sky;

Shadowed in water,

Yet clear as a cry.

Light on a face,

Or touch of a hand,

Making my still heart

Understand.

Earth hath not seen it.

Nor heaven above,

Yet shall the wild bough

Bend with the Dove.

Yea, tho’ the bloom fall

Under Thy feet,

Veni, Creator,

Paraclete!