Though death hang over it; too sure to die
But I must deem its resurrection nigh. 
—­In what wise, ah, in what wise shall it be? 
How shall the bark that girds the winter tree
Babble about the sap that sleeps beneath,
And tell the fashion of its life and death? 
How shall my tongue in speech man’s longing wrought
Tell of the things whereof he knoweth nought? 
Should I essay it might ye understand
How those I love shall share my promised land! 
Then must I speak of little things as great,
Then must I tell of love and call it hate,
Then must I bid you seek what all men shun,
Reward defeat, praise deeds that were not done.

Have faith, and crave and suffer, and all ye
The many mansions of my house shall see
In all content:  cast shame and pride away,
Let honour gild the world’s eventless day,
Shrink not from change, and shudder not at crime,
Leave lies to rattle in the sieve of Time! 
Then, whatsoe’er your workday gear shall stain,
Of me a wedding-garment shall ye gain
No God shall dare cry out at, when at last
Your time of ignorance is overpast;
A wedding garment, and a glorious seat
Within my household, e’en as yet be meet.

Fear not, I say again; believe it true
That not as men mete shall I measure you: 
This calm strong soul, whose hidden tale found out
Has grown a spell to conquer fear and doubt,
Is he not mine? yea, surely—­mine no less
This well mocked clamourer out of bitterness: 
The strong one’s strength, from me he had it not;
Let the world keep it that his love forgot;
The weak one’s weakness was enough to save,
Let the world hide it in his honour’s grave! 
For whatso folly is, or wisdom was
Across my threshold naked all must pass.

Fear not; no vessel to dishonour born
Is in my house; there all shall well adorn
The walls whose stones the lapse of Time has laid. 
Behold again; this life great stories made;
All cast aside for love, and then and then
Love filched away; the world an adder-den,
And all folk foes:  and one, the one desire—­
—­How shall we name it?—­grown a poisoned fire,
God once, God still, but God of wrong and shame
A lying God, a curse without a name. 
So turneth love to hate, the wise world saith. 
—­Folly—­I say ’twixt love and hate lies death,
They shall not mingle:  neither died this love,
But through a dreadful world all changed must move
With earthly death and wrong, and earthly woe
The only deeds its hand might find to do. 
Surely ye deem that this one shall abide
Within the murmuring palace of my pride.