And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.