When the angels speak.  A ring of amethyst
        I could not wear here plainer to my sight
        Than that first kiss.  The second passed in height
     The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
        Half falling on the hair.  Oh, beyond meed! 
     That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown
        With sanctifying sweetness did precede. 
     The third upon my lips was folded down
        In perfect purple state; since when, indeed,
     I have been proud, and said “My love, my own!”

     I LIVED with visions for my company,
        Instead of men and women, years ago,
        And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
     A sweeter music than they played to me. 
     But soon their trailing purple was not free
        Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,
        And I myself grew faint and blind below
     Their vanishing eyes.  Then THOU didst come—­to be,
        Beloved, what they seemed.  Their shining fronts,
     Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
        As river-water hallowed into fonts),
     Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
        My soul with satisfaction of all wants,
     Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

     BELOVED, my beloved, when I think
        That thou wast in the world a year ago,
        What time I sat alone here in the snow,
     And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
     No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,
        Went counting all my chains as if that so
        They never could fall off at any blow
     Struck by thy possible hand—­why, thus I drink
        Of life’s great cup of wonder!  Wonderful,
     Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
        With personal act or speech, nor ever cull
     Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
        Thou sawest growing!  Atheists are as dull,
     Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.

     BECAUSE thou hast the power and own’st the grace
        To look through and behind this mask of me,
        (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly
     With their rains!) and behold my soul’s true face,
     The dim and weary witness of life’s race;
        Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
        Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,
     The patient angel waiting for his place
        In the new heavens; because nor sin nor woe,
     Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighborhood,
        Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
     Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—­
        Nothing repels thee.—­Dearest, teach me so
     To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!