Love is enough: while ye deemed him a-sleeping, There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet;
His touch it was that would bring you to weeping, When the summer was deepest and music most sweet: In his footsteps ye followed the day to its dying, Ye went forth by his gown-skirts the morning to meet: In his place on the beaten-down orchard-grass lying, Of the sweet ways ye pondered left for life's trying. Ah, what was all dreaming of pleasure anear you, To the time when his eyes on your wistful eyes turned,
And ye saw his lips move, and his head bent to hear you, As new-born and glad to his kindness ye yearned? Ah, what was all dreaming of anguish and sorrow, To the time when the world in his torment was burned, And no god your heart from its prison might borrow, And no rest was left, no today, no tomorrow? All wonder of pleasure, all doubt of desire, All blindness, are ended, and no more ye feel If your feet treat his flowers or the flames of his fire, If your breast meet his balms or the edge of his steel. Change is come, and past over, no more strife, no more learning: Now your lips and your forehead are sealed with his seal, Look backward and smile at the thorns and the burning. —Sweet rest,
O my soul, and no fear of returning!
