THE PSYCHE OF OUR DAY

As constant lovers may rejoice

With seas between, with worlds between,

Because a fragrance and a voice

Are round them everywhere:

So let me travel to the grave,

Believing still — for I have seen —

That Love's triumphant banners wave

Beyond my own despair.

I have no trust in my own worth;

Yet have I faith, O love, for you,

That every beauty in bloom or leaf,

That even age and wrong

May touch, may hurt you, on this earth,

But only, only as kisses do;

Or as the fretted string of grief

Completes the bliss of song;

That you shall see, on any grave

The snow fall, like that unseen hand

Which O, so often, pressed your hair

To cherish and console:

That seas may roar and winds rave

But you shall feel and understand

What vast caresses everywhere

Convey you to the goal.

So was it always in the years

When Love began, when Love began

With eyes that were not touched of tears

And lips that still could sing —

And all around us, in the may,

The child-god with his laughter ran,

And every bloom, on every spray,

Betrayed his fluttering wing.

So hold it, keep it, count it, sweet,

Until the end, until the end.

It is not cruelty, but bliss

That pains and is so fond:

Crush life like thyme beneath your feet,

And O, my love, when that strange friend,

The Shadow of Wings, which men call Death

Shall close your eyes, with that last kiss,

Ask not His name. A rosier breath

Shall waken you — beyond.