Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home.
Between the lips of the low cave
Against that night the lapping waters lave,
And the dark lips are dumb.
But there Love’s self doth stand,
And with Life’s weary wings far-flown,
And with Death’s eyes that make the water moan,
Gathers the water in his hand:
And they that drink know nought of sky or land
But only love alone.