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Those whose Love, unborn to sight, Never did itself disclose Save in water's cry; a rose; Meteor furrowing the night;

Mote of any turning ray; Pipe of bird mid sunset's flush; Rain stilled, leaves flame-wet, and hush Of a rainbow's fire and spray;

Any straight road leads afar 'Cross a hill-brow--What's beyond?

Seven hung notes of music fond; Seven dark poplars, one white star;

Cloud lifting a tower aloft; Light and play and shadowy grace Of the soul behind a face Flitting by on motion soft;



Lonely figure on a height; Those whose love but shines a hint Fainter than the far sea's glint To the inland gazer's sight--

These alone, and but in part, Guess of what my songs are spun, And Who holds communion Subtly with my troubled heart.

But the substance of my grief Scarcely can their thought surmise, Who but glimpse through these my eyes Joy as fathomless as brief.

Others in this strange world flung, Orphans, too, of Destiny, Have the virtue, but not I, Keeps heart crystal, single tongue;

And know not, whose hearts are whole, How--when sickened and unclean, Unfit or to see, be seen-- Close thorns pack and prick the soul.

Yet though here soul suffereth, Complicate by vision's light, Never would I cede this right Of a sharpened life and death.

For I keep in confidence In my breast a subtle faith 'Scapes alway by narrow scathe And I draw my succour thence.

One Day, or maybe one Night-- Living? dying?--I shall see The Rose open gloriously On its heart of living light.

Know what any bird may mean, Meteor in my heart shall rest, Spelled on my brain blaze th' unguessed Words of the rainbow's dazzling sheen.

O the hour for which I wait!

Lovers of the Secret Love Watch with me, and we will prove Constancy can be elate.

For the sigil we have now Is but echo, shadow, less Than a nothing's nothingness, To what that hour will allow:

Lost and found! The Shining Ones!

Music, passion, scent, delight, Light and depth and space and height: Heaven and its seven suns!

DORSET SQUARE, _October_, 1916.

LAST WORDS

O let it be Just such an eve as this when I must die!

To see the green bough soaking, still against a sky Washed clean after the rain.

To watch the rapturous rainbow flame and fly Into the gloom where drops fall goldenly, And in my heart to feel the end of pain.

The end of pain: the late, the long expected!-- To see the skies clear in a sudden minute, The grey disparting on the blue within it, And on the low far sea the clouds collected.

In that deep quiet die to all has been, To be renewed, to bud, to flower again: My second spring!--whose hope was nigh rejected Before I go hence and am no more seen.

To hear the blackbird ring out, gay and bold, The low renewal of the ringdove's moan From among high, sheltered boughs, and ceaseless fall Pitter, pitter, patter, A dribble of gold From leaves nodding each on the other one, The hush, calm piping and the slow, sweet mood!

To drink the ripe warm scent of soaking matter, Wet grass, wet leaves, wet wood, Wet mould, The saddest and the grandest scent of all.

So when my dying eyes have loved the trees Till with huge tears turned blind, When the vague ears for the last time have hearkened To the cool stir of the long evening breeze, The blackbird's tireless call, Having drunk deep of earth-scent strong and kind, Come then, O Death, and let my day be darkened.

I shall have had my all.

LAWFORD, _April_, 1916.

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