Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs
Set by God’s hand—the coronal of thorns—
The cross, the wounds—with other meanings deep
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath,
The Saviour’s holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close