Love fearful, even the heart of love afraid,

With the great anguish of its great delight.

No swan-song, no far-fluttering half-drawn breath,

No word that love of love's sweet nature saith,

No dirge that lulls the narrowing lids of death,

No healing hymn of peace-prevented strife,—

This is her song of life.

I loved thee,—hark, one tenderer note than all—

Atthis, of old time, once—one low long fall,

Sighing—one long low lovely loveless call,

[Pg 322]

Dying—one pause in song so flamelike fast—

Atthis, long since in old time overpast—

One soft first pause and last.

One,—then the old rage of rapture's fieriest rain

Storms all the music-maddened night again.

Child of God, close craftswoman, I beseech thee,

Bid not ache nor agony break nor master,

Lady, my spirit—

O thou her mistress, might her cry not reach thee?

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