Thou art so great in spirit and yet so sweet
In spirit that whoso lists to sing of thee
Must mix his song with the sweet singing sea
That surges ever adoring round thy feet,
And with the passion of the winds that beat
Upon the rocky echoing mountain-sides:
Oh, thou art not possessed like common brides
Whose hearts at love's tumultuous tides retreat!

Nay! thou art as the spirit of the storm,
Sublime yet fragrant, wonderful yet warm,
Gentle yet terrible, most sweet yet great,
Dainty and white as half unfolded flower

Is it not wonderful that when we meet
The whole surrounding world-scene fades away!
We are sufficient each to each: we say,
" Now do the weary rest, — and rest is sweet. "
Thou hast the tenderness of Christlike feet
That flush with rose the worldly waters grey;
And I? God gives me manhood to convey
To thy time-frozen heart new vital heat.

So like two gods we blend our souls in one,
Lords of all seasons, kings of the wide land,
A queen and king with wedded hand in hand, —
Gazing triumphant at our long work done,

Through pain we reach a lonely region fair
With the immortal mountain-winds of God,
Whereunto winds a weird untravelled road,
Thrilled by the high song of the mountain-air.
The altar of our faithful love is there
On the sheer hill-side trackless and untrod;
By power of earnest endless passion shod
Our feet have climbed the rocks and glaciers bare.

And now we stand together on the height
And sweeter than the singing of the vale
Is this my harp-string that the keen airs smite,
And sweeter art thou, rose, though thou art pale

We strive together the far heights to reach.
The longing for the mountains and the sea
Doth ever, sweetheart, overshadow thee;
Ever their music ringeth through my speech.
Ours is the rapture of the lonely beach
When the white breakers surge tumultuously,
And ours the glory of the pine-clad lea;
The mountains and the ocean chant to each.

Thou art the mountain-air: I am the sea:
Thou bringest me the breath of all thy pines
And all thy blossoms' beauty and their glee
And all the glory of fern-draped inclines

I waited for thee: ever did I wait.
No music sounded through the shades of night
Or when the moon upon the waves was bright
Or when the sun swept through the morning's gate
Or when the innumerable breakers white
Flung at the scowling clouds their angry hate, —
But, maddened by the loneliness of fate,
I yearned towards thee as towards my soul's own light.

I knew thee not, — but music spake of thee
And of the sacred beauty of thy breast,
And all the voices of the mournful sea
Said, " Here is peace for ever, here is rest;

Oh, sweetheart, had I known thee in those days!
How sweet thine eyes were in the early air
Of life when all fair things are yet more fair;
How softly thou didst thread the forest-ways.
The breeze of morning wantoned with thy hair
As thou didst wander through the wooded hollow:
Oh, had mine eager heart been there to follow,
What fruit of joy life might have had to bear!

'Tis late to meet when the chill woods are grey,
No longer rose-flushed with the dawn of day
And beautiful with bloom of early dreams;

Didst thou, sweet, wait for me when thou wast young?
Yea, have we yearned across the bitter seas,
Heart wailing out to heart, — and hath the breeze
Of summer round two souls expectant sung?
Have the pale past years with one weary tongue
Cried out for soul-companionship? the trees
Waved with forlorn grey frondage o'er waste leas,
And through the stars one hopeless music rung?

And, now we find each other, we are barred, —
Barred from each other, though the sad souls cry
" At length, at length, a recompence is nigh,

Because thou art a saint, and clothed in white,
Thou art to me the sweetest of all flowers,
And far more fragrant are thy beauty's bowers
Than those that flaunt their bloom to daily sight.
Love is a small thing, when the love is light, —
But the great love that mocketh mortal hours
And sings the clearer when the storm-cloud lowers,
Endures beyond earth's day, beyond death's night.

Because thou art a saint, thou art a flower,
And thou art woman in that thou art saint,
And angel in thy womanhood's pure power,

The thought of such sweet company forsaking
Is odious, — would that I could stay the sun!
Put back the clock, dream on without awaking,
Nor rise to meet a sad new day begun!
But days will pass, — they do not last for ever,
And then there comes again the sweet warm night,
A gentle lady, sent our souls to sever
From all the wear and labour of the light.
Thrice welcome art thou! brood about my pillow,
And cover me with darkness as a shield,
And touch my eyes with sleep — into the billow
Of soft unconsciousness my soul I yield,

Therefore I love the darkness, and right gladly
I lay me down, and close my eyes and wait,
Wait, — wondering half smilingly, half sadly,
What dreams will issue through the Ivory Gate.
'Tis bliss to feel that I perchance may meet her,
And talk to her, and walk with her till morn,
And falling low before her feet entreat her
Till dreams at daylight-advent fly forlorn:
To think that ere I wake to brave the morrow
Closed eyes may feast in rapture on her face,
And heart forget its pain, and soul its sorrow,