ix.
Till I have heard from thee my doom of death
I shall be proud to serve thee with my breath,
And with my labour, and be thine withal
As Man is God's,—content with any thrall
That's bound in thee; content with any lot
That's link'd with thine, in some secluded spot
Which thou hast lov'd, O Lady! in the past,
And where remorse and wrong will find us not.
x.
To know thee fair, ah God! how sweet is this;
To find thee wavering, and to grasp in bliss
Only the dream of thee, how sad the while!
And yet, by reason of a moment's smile,
How grand to hope, how gracious to forget!
Thou false to me? Thou heedless of a debt
Of love's incurring? Nay, by Juno's crown,
Thy snow-white hand shall be my guerdon yet!
xi.
The spirit-love that leads us to the soul
Athwart the body as its fairest goal,—
The love that lives in languor undefined
And yet is strong,—the love that can be kind
And yet aggressive as a soldier's blade,
Keen to the hilt, entranced and not afraid,—
This is the love that will survive the death
Of all endowments which the years have made.
xii.
Wilt frown at this? Wilt chide me? Wilt appeal,
As some are wont, when lovers, out of zeal,
O'erstep the bounds of wisdom which hath ceased
To win men's praise? The Matins of the East
Sung by the lark,—the Credo of the Cloud
Which oft he sings in confirmation proud
Of his great love,—all this were mine excuse
If I could sing as he, so dawn-endow'd.