EPILOGUE
Oh, Love—no, Love! All the noise below, Love,
Groanings all and moanings—none of Life I lose!
All of Life's a cry just of weariness and woe, Love—
"Hear at least, thou happy one!" How can I, Love, but choose?
Only, when I do hear, sudden circle round me
—Much as when the moon's might frees a space from cloud—
Iridescent splendors: gloom—would else confound me—
Barriered off and banished far—bright-edged the blackest shroud!
Thronging through the cloud-rift, whose are they, the faces