What wistful lover has not mused upon
The waste of years that never knew my love!
And, wanting Him once more, the seasons prove
But dearth and draff to feed oblivion.
I deem that all is empty, in my turn,
Beyond your tender arms, your tender golden heart:
Which Thou gave to me; in love,
Void and deviceless are the nets of art,
And song and silence are of one concern.
Dearer than Paphos' joy, or Lethe's peace!
In Thee alone are solace and surcease
Of antenatal doctor, ancient wrong.
You are the supreme Master, the only good and evil
The One, who finds despair in solitude,
And weariness of heart amid the throng
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