Coldly I answer’d ‘Ay;’ then blessed words
That danced into mine ears more excellent
Music than wedding bells had been were said,
With certitude that I might see my maid,
My dear one.  He would give a paper, he
The man beside me.  ’Do thy best endeavour,
Dear youth.  Thy maiden being a right sweet child
Surely will hearken to thee; an she do,
And will recant, fair faultless heretic,
Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high
Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced
From her mouth innocent, then shall she come
Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. 
But an she will not she must burn, no power—­
Not Solomon the Great on ’s ivory throne
With all his wisdom could find out a way,
Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. 
Now hast thou till day dawn.  The Mother of God
Speed thee.’  A twisted scroll he gave; himself
Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone,
A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. 
Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. 
He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame
Till it was ashes; ‘Follow’ and no more
Whisper’d, went up the giddy spiring way,
I after, till we reached the topmost door. 
Then took a key, opened, and crying ’Delia,
Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,’
I darted forward and he locked us in. 
Two figures; one rose up and ran to me
Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor,
Fell on my neck.  Long time we kissed and wept.

But for that other, while she stood appeased
For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms,
I had been glad, expecting a good end. 
The cramped pale fellow prisoner; ‘Courage’ cried. 
Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon
Did show me its incomparable calms. 
Her effluent thought needed no word of mine,
It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. 
The warm enchantment leaning on my breast
Breathed as in air remote, and I was left
To infinite detachment, even with hers
To take cold kisses from the lips of doom,
Look in those eyes and disinherit hope
From that high place late won. 
                              Then murmuring low
That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft
As broken-hearted mourning of the dove,
She ‘One deep calleth to another’ sighed. 
’The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, “Endure. 
There was a day when to the wilderness
My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth
Sad messengers, demanding Art thou He? 
Think’st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? 
How could I hold the power, and want the will
Or want the love?  That pang was his—­and mine. 
He said not, Save me an thou be the Son,
But only Art thou He?  In my great way
It was not writ,—­legions of Angels mine,
There was one Angel, one ordain’d to unlock
At my behest the doomed deadly door. 
I could not tell him, tell not thee, why.”  Lord,
We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve,
Think not so deeply on ’t; make us endure
For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn
“I will go forth, thy desolations meet,
And with my desolations solace them. 
I will not break thy bonds but I am bound,
With thee."’