lp me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel. . . ."

What does the fennel mean? Something, but he cannot grasp it--and the
thread now seems to float upon that weed with the orange cup, where five
green beetles are groping--but not there either does it rest . . . it is
all about him: entangling, eluding:

"Everywhere on the grassy slope,
I traced it. Hold it fast!"

The grassy slope may be the secret! That infinity of passion and
peace--the Roman Campagna:

"The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air--
Rome's ghost since her decease."

And think of all that that plain even now stands for:

"Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!"

They love one another: why cannot they be like that plain, why cannot
_they_ "let nature have her way"? Does she understand?

"How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?"

But always they stop short of one another. That is the dread mystery:

"I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?"

He longs to yield his will, his whole being--to see with her eyes, set
his heart beating by hers, drink his fill from her soul; make her part
his--_be_ her. . . .

"No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth--I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak--
Then the good minute goes."

Goes--with such swiftness! Already he is "far out of it." And shall this
never be different?

". . . Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow?"

He must indeed, for already he is "off again":

"Just when I seemed about to learn!"

Even the letting nature have her way is not the secret. The thread is
lost again:

"The old trick! Only I discern--
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that y