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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!
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