But not March weather over ploughlands blown,
Nor cresses green upon their gravel bed,
Are beautiful with the clean rigour grown
Of quiet thought our love has piloted.
V
I sit before the hearths of many men,
When speech goes gladly, eager to withhold
No word at all, yet when I pass again
The last of words is captive and untold.
We talk together in love’s house, and there
No thought but seeks what counsel you may give,
And every secret trouble from its lair
Comes to your hand, no longer fugitive.
VI
I woo the world, with burning will to be
Delighted in all fortune it may find,
And still the strident dogs of jealousy
Go mocking down the tunnels of my mind.
Only for you my contemplation goes
Clean as a god’s, undarkened of pretence,
Most happy when your garner overflows,
Achieving in your prosperous diligence.
VII
When from the dusty corners of my brain
Comes limping some ungainly word or deed,
I know not if my dearest friend’s disdain
Be durable or brief, spent husk or seed.
But your rebuke and that poor fault of mine
Go straitly outcast, and we close the door,
And I, no promise asking and no sign,
Stand blameless in love’s presence as before.