aised my head,--"Now let all hell make mirth,
Where Love went, I go, too!"
His eyes met mine. The sword sank to the earth,
And let her lover through.

THE PSYCHE OF OUR DAY

As constant lovers may rejoice
With seas between, with worlds between,
Because a fragrance and a voice
Are round them everywhere:
So let me travel to the grave,
Believing still--for I have seen--
That Love's triumphant banners wave
Beyond my own despair.

I have no trust in my own worth;
Yet have I faith, O love, for you,
That every beauty in bloom or leaf,
That even age and wrong
May touch, may hurt you, on this earth,
But only, only as kisses do;
Or as the fretted string of grief
Completes the bliss of song;

That you shall see, on any grave
The snow fall, like that unseen hand
Which O, so often, pressed your hair
To cherish and console:
That seas may roar and winds rave
But you shall feel and understand
What vast caresses everywhere
Convey you to the goal.

So was it always in the years
When Love began, when Love began
With eyes that were not touched of tears
And lips that still could sing--
And all around us, in the may,
The child-god with his laughter ran,
And every bloom, on every spray,
Betrayed his fluttering wing.

So hold it, keep it, count it, sweet,
Until the end, until the end.
It is not cruelty, but bliss
That pains and is so fond:
Crush life like thyme beneath your feet,
And O, my love, when that strange friend,
The Shadow of Wings, which men call Death
Shall close your eyes, with that last kiss,
Ask not His name. A rosier breath
Shall waken you--beyond.

PARACLETE

Tongue hath not told it,
Heart hath not known;
Yet shall the bough swing
When it hath flown.

Dreams have denied it,
Fools forsworn:
Yet it hath comforted
Each man born.

Once and again it is
Blown to me,
Sweet from the wild thyme,
Salt from the sea;

Blown thro' the ferns
Faint from the sky;
Shadowed in water,
Yet clear as a cry.

Light on a face,
Or touch of a hand,
Making my still heart
Understand.

Earth hath not seen it.
Nor heaven above,
Yet shall the wild bough
Bend with the Dove.

Yea, tho' the bloom fall
Under Thy feet,
_Veni, Creator,
Paraclete!_

AFTER RAIN

Listen!