might
Somewhat that drew men’s own to mar their sight,
Even of all eyes drawn toward him:  and his mouth
Was as the very rose of all men’s youth,
One rose of all the rose-beds in the world: 
But round his brows the curls were snakes that curled,
And like his tongue a serpent’s; and his voice
Speaks death, and bids rejoice. 
Yet then he spake no word, seeming as dumb,
A dumb thing mild and hurtless; nor at first
From his bowed eyes seemed any light to come,
Nor his meek lips for blood or tears to thirst: 
But as one blind and mute in mild sweet wise
Pleading for pity of piteous lips and eyes,
He strayed with faint bare lily-lovely feet
Helpless, and flowerlike sweet: 
Nor might man see, not having word hereof,
That this of all gods was the great god Love.

And seeing him lovely and like a little child
That wellnigh wept for wonder that it smiled
And was so feeble and fearful, with soft speech
The youth bespake him softly; but there fell
From the sweet lips no sweet word audible
That ear or thought might reach: 
No sound to make the dim cold silence glad,
No breath to thaw the hard harsh air with heat;
Only the saddest smile of all things sweet,
Only the sweetest smile of all things sad.

And so they went together one green way
Till April dying made free the world for May;
And on his guide suddenly Love’s face turned,
And in his blind eyes burned
Hard light and heat of laughter; and like flame
That opens in a mountain’s ravening mouth
To blear and sear the sunlight from the south,
His mute mouth opened, and his first word came: 
‘Knowest thou me now by name?’
And all his stature waxed immeasurable,
As of one shadowing heaven and lightening hell;
And statelier stood he than a tower that stands
And darkens with its darkness far-off sands
Whereon the sky leans red;
And with a voice that stilled the winds he said: 
’I am he that was thy lord before thy birth,
I am he that is thy lord till thou turn earth: 
I make the night more dark, and all the morrow
Dark as the night whose darkness was my breath: 
O fool, my name is sorrow;
Thou fool, my name is death.’

And he that heard spake not, and looked right on
Again, and Love was gone.

Through many a night toward many a wearier day
His spirit bore his body down its way. 
Through many a day toward many a wearier night
His soul sustained his sorrows in her sight. 
And earth was bitter, and heaven, and even the sea
Sorrowful even as he. 
And the wind helped not, and the sun was dumb;
And with too long strong stress of grief to be
His heart grew sere and numb.