O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Faith lives in honest doubt.

How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!