Something there must be that I know not here,
Or know too dimly through the symbol dear;
Some touch, some beauty, only guessed by this—
If He that made us loves, it shall replace,
Beloved, even the vision of thy face
And deep communion of thine inmost kiss.
{124}
Mors Janua
Pilgrim, no shrine is here, no prison, no inn:
Thy fear and thy belief alike are fond:
Death is a gate, and holds no room within:
Pass—to the road beyond.
{125}
Rondel*
Though I wander far-off ways,
Dearest, never doubt thou me:
Mine is not the love that strays,
Though I wander far-off ways:
Faithfully for all my days
I have vowed myself to thee:
Though I wander far-off ways,
Dearest, never doubt thou me.
* This and the two following pieces are from the French of Wenceslas,
Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.