The Burning Glare
No friend shall follow and face the burning glare
Of thought, in those fierce realms towards which I lead:
No lesser love shall triumph, or succeed
In breathing that divine sun-stricken air.
Yet well and tenderly my sweet shall fare; —
She shall not thirst, — her white foot shall not bleed, —
She shall not pant for brook or flowery mead:
Love is enough, — and Love's fount shall be there.
Love's silver waters tender and divine
Shall spring around us at this staff of mine, —
The stroke of this my living staff of song:
So, through the parched-up desert as we go,
Sweet brooks of recompence shall round us flow,
And never one day's journey shall seem long.
Of thought, in those fierce realms towards which I lead:
No lesser love shall triumph, or succeed
In breathing that divine sun-stricken air.
Yet well and tenderly my sweet shall fare; —
She shall not thirst, — her white foot shall not bleed, —
She shall not pant for brook or flowery mead:
Love is enough, — and Love's fount shall be there.
Love's silver waters tender and divine
Shall spring around us at this staff of mine, —
The stroke of this my living staff of song:
So, through the parched-up desert as we go,
Sweet brooks of recompence shall round us flow,
And never one day's journey shall seem long.
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