I think I shall not ever pray for such; Thy bliss will overflood my heart and brain, And I want no unripe things back again. Love ever fresher, lovelier than of old-- How should it want its more exchanged for much? Love will not backward sigh, but forward strain, On in the tale still telling, never told. 5. What has been, shall not only be, but is. The hues of dreamland, strange and sweet and tender Are but hint-shadows of full many a splendour Which the high Parent-love will yet unroll Before his child's obedient, humble soul. Ah, me, my God! in thee lies every bliss Whose shadow men go hunting wearily amiss. 6. Now, ere I sleep, I wonder what I shall dream. Some sense of being, utter new, may come Into my soul while I am blind and dumb-- With shapes and airs and scents which dark hours teem, Of other sort than those that haunt the day, Hinting at precious things, ages away In the long tale of us God to himself doth say. 7. Late, in a dream, an unknown lady I saw Stand on a tomb; down she to me stepped thence. "They tell me," quoth I, "thou art one of the dead!" And scarce believed for gladness the yea she said; A strange auroral bliss, an arctic awe, A new, outworldish joy awoke intense, To think I talked with one that verily was dead. 8. Thou dost demand our love, holy Lord Christ, And batest nothing of thy modesty;-- Thou know'st no other way to bliss the highest Than loving thee, the loving, perfectly. Thou lovest perfectly--that is thy bliss: We must love like thee, or our being miss-- So, to love perfectly, love perfect Love, love thee. 9. Here is my heart, O Christ; thou know'st I love thee. But wretched is the thing I call my love. O Love divine, rise up in me and move me-- I follow surely when thou first dost move. To love the perfect love, is primal, mere Necessity; and he who holds life dear, Must love thee every hope and heart above. 10. Might I but scatter interfering things-- Questions and doubts, distrusts and anxious pride, And in thy garment, as under gathering wings, Nestle obedient to thy loving side, Easy it were to love thee. But when thou Send'st me to think and labour from thee wide, Love falls to asking many a why and how. 11. Easier it were, but poorer were the love. Lord, I would have me love thee from the deeps-- Of troubled thought, of pain, of weariness. Through seething wastes below, billows above, My soul should rise in eager, hungering leaps; Through thorny thicks, through sands unstable press-- Out of my dream to him who slumbers not nor sleeps. 12.