With thought of anger, grief, suspicion, woe,
For peace must rest upon the tower Gale’d.”
Thus to us be, O Love! this crimson room
So rich with curtains of an orient bloom
Which sun-pale women wrought, dreaming of men
Who’d rush to meet them with the dusk again;
Whene’er we enter here let sad thoughts be
Deep buried in our love’s immensity.
XXXI
Faith is the soul’s pure garment, is it not,