Is it swooning or sleeping? in what wise shall he waken? 
—­Nay, no sound I hear save the forest wind wailing. 
Who shall help us to-day save our yoke-fellow Death? 
Yet fain would I die mid the sun and the flowers;
For a tomb seems this yew-wood ere yet we are dead. 
And its wailing wind chilleth my yearning for time past,
And my love groweth cold in this dusk of the daytime. 
What will be? is worse than death drawing anear us? 
Flit past, dreary day! come, night-tide and resting! 
Come, to-morrow’s uprising with light and new tidings! 
—­Lo, Lord, I have borne all with no bright love before me;
Wilt thou break all I had and then give me no blessing?

THE MUSIC

LOVE IS ENOUGH:  through the trouble and tangle
  From yesterdays dawning to yesterday’s night
I sought through the vales where the prisoned winds wrangle,
  Till, wearied and bleeding, at end of the light
  I met him, and we wrestled, and great was my might.

O great was my joy, though no rest was around me,
  Though mid wastes of the world were we twain all alone,
For methought that I conquered and he knelt and he crowned me,
  And the driving rain ceased, and the wind ceased to moan,
  And through clefts of the clouds her planet outshone.

O through clefts of the clouds ’gan the world to awaken,
  And the bitter wind piped, and down drifted the rain,
And I was alone—­and yet not forsaken,
  For the grass was untrodden except by my pain: 
  With a Shadow of the Night had I wrestled in vain.

And the Shadow of the Night and not Love was departed;
  I was sore, I was weary, yet Love lived to seek;
So I scaled the dark mountains, and wandered sad-hearted
  Over wearier wastes, where e’en sunlight was bleak,
  With no rest of the night for my soul waxen weak._

With no rest of the night; for I waked mid a story
  Of a land wherein Love is the light and the lord,
Where my tale shall be heard, and my wounds gain a glory,
  And my tears be a treasure to add to the hoard
  Of pleasure laid up for his people’s reward.

Ah, pleasure laid up! haste thou onward and listen,
  For the wind of the waste has no music like this,
And not thus do the rocks of the wilderness glisten: 
  With the host of his faithful through sorrow and bliss
  My Lord goeth forth now, and knows me for his._

Enter before the curtain LOVE, with a cup of bitter drink and his hands bloody.

LOVE

O Pharamond, I knew thee brave and strong,
And yet how might’st thou live to bear this wrong? 
—­A wandering-tide of three long bitter years,
Solaced at whiles by languor of soft tears,
By dreams self-wrought of night and sleep and sorrow,
Holpen by hope of tears to be to-morrow: 
Yet all, alas, but wavering memories;
No vision of her hands, her lips, her eyes,
Has blessed him since he seemed to see her weep,
No wandering feet of hers beset his sleep.