Soon with new shadows fill’d, new flowers o’ergrown,
Is theirs no more.”
Hast thou such power, O Love? And Love replied:
—“It is not mine! Pour out thy soul’s full tide
Of hope and trust,
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain—
’Tis but to write, with the heart’s fiery rain,
Wild words on dust!”
Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay,
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away