Dedication to Alice Swinburne

I.     The love that comes and goes like wind or fire     Hath words and wings wherewith to speak and flee.     But love more deep than passion's deep desire,     Clear and inviolable as the unsounded sea,     What wings of words may serve to set it free,     To lift and lead it homeward? Time and death     Are less than love: or man's live spirit saith     False, when he deems his life is more than breath. II.     No words may utter love; no sovereign song     Speak all it would for love's sake. Yet would I     Fain cast in moulded rhymes that do me wrong     Some little part of all my love: but why     Should weak and wingless words be fain to fly?     For us the years that live not are not dead:     Past days and present in our hearts are wed:     My song can say no more than love hath said. III.     Love needs nor song nor speech to say what love     Would speak or sing, were speech and song not weak     To bear the sense-belated soul above     And bid the lips of silence breathe and speak.     Nor power nor will has love to find or seek     Words indiscoverable, ampler strains of song     Than ever hailed him fair or shewed him strong:     And less than these should do him worse than wrong. IV.     We who remember not a day wherein     We have not loved each other, - who can see     No time, since time bade first our days begin,     Within the sweep of memory's wings, when we     Have known not what each other's love must be, -     We are well content to know it, and rest on this,     And call not words to witness that it is.     To love aloud is oft to love amiss. V.     But if the gracious witness borne of words     Take not from speechless love the secret grace     That binds it round with silence, and engirds     Its heart with memories fair as heaven's own face,     Let love take courage for a little space     To speak and be rebuked not of the soul,     Whose utterance, ere the unwitting speech be whole,     Rebukes itself, and craves again control. VI.     A ninefold garland wrought of song-flowers nine     Wound each with each in chance-inwoven accord     Here at your feet I lay as on a shrine     Whereof the holiest love that lives is lord.     With faint strange hues their leaves are freaked and scored:     The fable-flowering land wherein they grew     Hath dreams for stars, and grey romance for dew:     Perchance no flower thence plucked may flower anew. VII.     No part have these wan legends in the sun     Whose glory lightens Greece and gleams on Rome.     Their elders live: but these - their day is done,     Their records written of the wind in foam     Fly down the wind, and darkness takes them home.     What Homer saw, what Virgil dreamed, was truth,     And dies not, being divine: but whence, in sooth,     Might shades that never lived win deathless youth? VIII.     The fields of fable, by the feet of faith     Untrodden, bloom not where such deep mist drives.     Dead fancy's ghost, not living fancy's wraith,     Is now the storied sorrow that survives     Faith in the record of these lifeless lives.     Yet Milton's sacred feet have lingered there,     His lips have made august the fabulous air,     His hands have touched and left the wild weeds fair. IX.     So, in some void and thought-untrammelled hour,     Let these find grace, my sister, in your sight,     Whose glance but cast on casual things hath power     To do the sun's work, bidding all be bright     With comfort given of love: for love is light.     Were all the world of song made mine to give,     The best were yours of all its flowers that live:     Though least of all be this my gift, forgive.