For who is conscious when God touches him?—
But littlest acts there were; yet spirits read
From signs too fine for measurements of space;
Love heeds no measurements. But hints there were;
And yet what words of love yield more than these?
They hit the sense of love, but fail of sense
Where nothing loving waits to take the hint.
This learn’d our souls at last; I wot not how.
And kitten-like, at play beside the hearth,
We told our secrets, and none knew of them.