If any sense in mortal dust remains
When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower,
Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower
And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains
Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing
Through half a summer day, for love bestow,
Then in some warm old garden let me grow
To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing...
-
-
I found Thee in my heart, O Lord,
As in some secret shrine;
I knelt, I waited for Thy word,
I joyed to name Thee mine.I feared to give myself away
To that or this; beside
Thy altar on my face I lay,
And in strong need I cried.Those hours are past. Thou art not mine,
And therefore I rejoice,
I wait within no holy shrine...