But what he said ... I have written day by day, With somewhat even writing. Did I think That such a passionate rain would intercept And dash this last page? What he said, indeed, I fain would write it down here like the rest, To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears, The heart’s sweet scripture, to be read at night When weary, or at morning when afraid, And lean my heaviest oath on when I swear That, when all’s done, all tried; all counted here, All great arts, and all good philosophies,— This love just puts its hand out in a dream, And straight outreaches all things. What he said, I fain would write. But if an angel spoke In thunder, should we, haply, know much more Than that it thundered? If a cloud came down And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its shape, As if on the outside, and not overcome? And so he spake. His breath against my face Confused his words, yet made them more intense,— As when the sudden finder of the wind Will wipe a row of single city-lamps To a pure white line of flame, more luminous Because of obliteration; more intense,— The intimate presence carrying in itself Complete communication, as with souls Who, having put the body off, perceive Through simply being. Thus, ’twas granted me To know he loved me to the depth and height Of such large natures, ever competent With grand horizons by the land or sea, To love’s grand sunrise. Small spheres hold small fires: But he loved largely, as a man can love Who, baffled in his love, dares live his life, Accept the ends which God loves, for his own, And lift a constant aspect. From the day I had brought to England my poor searching face, (An orphan even of my father’s grave) He had loved me, watched me, watched his soul in mine, Which in me grew and heightened into love. For he, a boy still, had been told the tale Of how a fairy bride from Italy, With smells of oleanders in her hair, Was coming through the vines to touch his hand; Whereat the blood of boyhood on the palm Made sudden heats. And when at last I came, And lived before him, lived, and rarely smiled, He smiled and loved me for the thing I was, As every child will love the year’s first flower, (Not certainly the fairest of the year, But, in which, the complete year seems to blow) The poor sad snowdrop,—growing between drifts, Mysterious medium ’twixt the plant and frost, So faint with winter while so quick with spring, So doubtful if to thaw itself away With that snow near it. Not that Romney Leigh Had loved me coldly. If I thought so once, It was as if I had held my hand in fire And shook for cold. But now I understood For ever, that the very fire and heat Of troubling passion in him, burned him clear,