rhymes that do me wrong Some little part of all my love: but why Should weak and wingless words be fain to fly? For us the years that live not are not dead: Past days and present in our hearts are wed: My song can say no more than love hath said.

III.

Love needs nor song nor speech to say what love Would speak or sing, were speech and song not weak To bear the sense-belated soul above And bid the lips of silence breathe and speak. Nor power nor will has love to find or seek Words indiscoverable, ampler strains of song Than ever hailed him fair or shewed him strong: And less than these should do him worse than wrong.

IV.

We who remember not a day wherein We have not loved each other,—who can see No time, since time bade first our days begin, Within the sweep of memory’s wings, when we Have known not what each other’s love must be,— We are well content to know it, and rest on this, And call not words to witness that it is. To love aloud is oft to love amiss.

V.

But if the gracious witness borne of words Take not from speechless love the secret grace That binds it round with silence, and engirds Its heart with memories fair as heaven’s own face, Let love take courage for a little space To speak and be rebuked not of the soul, Whose utterance, ere the unwitting speech be whole, Rebukes itself, and craves again control.

VI.

A ninefold garland wrought of song-flowers nine Wound each with each in chance-inwoven accord Here at your feet I lay as on a shrine Whereof the holiest love that lives is lord. With faint strange hues their leaves are freaked and scored: The fable-flowering land wherein they grew Hath dreams for stars, and grey romance for dew: Perchance no flower thence plucked may flower anew.

VII.

No part have these wan legends in the sun Whose glory lightens Greece and gleams on Rome. Their elders live: but these—their day is done, Their records written of the wind in foam Fly down the wind, and darkness takes them home. What Homer saw, what Virgil dreamed, was truth, And dies not, being divine: but whence, in sooth, Might shades that never lived win deathless youth?

VIII.

The fields of fable, by the feet of faith Untrodden, bloom not where such deep mist drives. 

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