Happy if she, high-radiant there, resigned
To his sure trust her image in his mind. 
O fairer even than Peace is when she comes
Hushing War’s tumult, and retreating drums
Fade to a murmur like the sough of bees
Hidden among the noon-stilled linden-trees, 30
Bringer of quiet, thou that canst allay
The dust and din and travail of the day,
Strewer of Silence, Giver of the dew
That doth our pastures and our souls renew,
Still dwell remote, still on thy shoreless sea
Float unattained in silent empery,
Still light my thoughts, nor listen to a prayer
Would make thee less imperishably fair!

II

Can, then, my twofold nature find content
In vain conceits of airy blandishment? 40
Ask I no more?  Since yesterday I task
My storm-strewn thoughts to tell me what I ask: 
Faint premenitions of mutation strange
Steal o’er my perfect orb, and, with the change,
Myself am changed; the shadow of my earth
Darkens the disk of that celestial worth
Which only yesterday could still suffice
Upwards to waft my thoughts in sacrifice;
My heightened fancy with its touches warm
Moulds to a woman’s that ideal form; 50
Nor yet a woman’s wholly, but divine
With awe her purer essence bred in mine. 
Was it long brooding on their own surmise,
Which, of the eyes engendered, fools the eyes,
Or have I seen through that translucent air
A Presence shaped in its seclusions bare,
My Goddess looking on me from above
As look our russet maidens when they love,
But high-uplifted, o’er our human heat
And passion-paths too rough for her pearl feet? 60

Slowly the Shape took outline as I gazed
At her full-orbed or crescent, till, bedazed
With wonder-working light that subtly wrought
My brain to its own substance, steeping thought
In trances such as poppies give, I saw
Things shut from vision by sight’s sober law,
Amorphous, changeful, but defined at last
Into the peerless Shape mine eyes hold fast. 
This, too, at first I worshipt:  soon, like wine,
Her eyes, in mine poured, frenzy-philtred mine; 70
Passion put Worship’s priestly raiment on
And to the woman knelt, the Goddess gone. 
Was I, then, more than mortal made? or she
Less than divine that she might mate with me? 
If mortal merely, could my nature cope
With such o’ermastery of maddening hope? 
If Goddess, could she feel the blissful woe
That women in their self-surrender know?

III

Long she abode aloof there in her heaven,
Far as the grape-bunch of the Pleiad seven 80
Beyond my madness’ utmost leap; but here
Mine eyes have feigned of late her rapture near,
Moulded of mind-mist that broad day dispels,
Here in these shadowy woods and brook-lulled dells.