To all the spirits of Love that wander
Along his love-sown harvest-field of
My lady lies apparent; and the
Calls to the deep; and no man sees but I.
The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh,
Rests there attained.
Methinks proud Love must
When Fate's control doth from his harvest
The sacred hour for which the years did sigh.
First touched, the hand now warm around my
Taught memory long to mock desire: and lo!
Across my breast the abandoned hair doth flow,
Where one shorn tress long stirred the longing ache:
And next the heart that trembled for its
Lies the queen-heart in sovereign overthrow.
