"God knows the answer. They know our songs,
"The coloured patch on the background, Silence,
The gleaming thought that is Love's to wear
Undimmed through space to a myriad-while hence.
Could the hands be worthy that knew not care
To weave Love's garb? Though we needs must suffer,
Shall we sing the worse that we sing in vain?
Our songs shall rise as the road grows rougher.
In the breathless hills, in the fevered plain,
"They mount as sparks from the night's oases,