XXXIX

The world will say, “What mystic love is this?

What ghostly mistress? What angelic friend?”

Read, masters, your own passion to the end,

And tell me then if I have writ amiss.

When all loves die that hang upon a kiss,

And must with cavil and with chance contend,

Their risen selves with the eternal blend

Where perfect dying is their perfect bliss.

And might I kiss her once, asleep or dead,

Upon the forehead or the globed eyes,

Or where the gold is parted on her head,

That kiss would help me on to paradise

As if I kissed the consecrated bread

In which the buried soul of Jesus lies.