And my tears be a treasure to add to the hoard
Of pleasure laid up for his people's reward.
Ah, pleasure laid up! haste thou onward and listen,
For the wind of the waste has no music like this,
And not thus do the rocks of the wilderness glisten:
With the host of his faithful through sorrow and bliss
My Lord goeth forth now, and knows me for his.
Enter before the curtain LOVE, with a cup of bitter drink and his hands bloody.
LOVE
O Pharamond, I knew thee brave and strong,
And yet how might'st thou live to bear this wrong?
—A wandering-tide of three long bitter years,
Solaced at whiles by languor of soft tears,
By dreams self-wrought of night and sleep and sorrow,
Holpen by hope of tears to be to-morrow:
Yet all, alas, but wavering memories;
No vision of her hands, her lips, her eyes,
Has blessed him since he seemed to see her weep,
No wandering feet of hers beset his sleep.