Last winged by the Archer whose quiver is full for sweeter than thou,
That yet will sing out of the dust when the ultimate arrow shall bow.
· · · · ·
Now thou couldst bless and God-speed, without bitterness bred in thine heart,
Loves, that, outworn and time-wasted, were fain from thy lodge to depart:
Though dulled by their passing, thy faith, like a flower upfolded by night,
New kindness should quicken again, as a flower feels the touch of new light.
Ay, now thou couldst love, undefeated, with ardor instinct from pure Love,—
Warmed from a sun in the heavens that knows not beneath nor above,
Nor distance its patience to weary, nor substance unpierce by its ray.