The love made strong with knowledge, whence confirmed The whole soul takes assurance, and the past (So by time's measure, not by memory's, termed) Lives present life, and mingles first with last. I, now long since thy guest of many days, Who found thy hearth a brother's, and with thee Tracked in and out the lines of rolling bays And banks and gulfs and reaches of the sea-- Deep dens wherein the wrestling water sobs And pants with restless pain of refluent breath Till all the sunless hollow sounds and throbs With ebb and flow of eddies dark as death-- I know not what more glorious world, what waves More bright with life,--if brighter aught may live Than those that filled and fled their tidal caves-- May now give back the love thou hast to give. Tintagel, and the long Trebarwith sand, Lone Camelford, and Boscastle divine With dower of southern blossom, bright and bland Above the roar of granite-baffled brine, Shall hear no more by joyous night or day From downs or causeways good to rove and ride Or feet of ours or horse-hoofs urge their way That sped us here and there by tower and tide. The headlands and the hollows and the waves, For all our love, forget us: where I am Thou art not: deeper sleeps the shadow on graves Than in the sunless gulf that once we swam. Thou hast swum too soon the sea of death: for us Too soon, but if truth bless love's blind belief Faith, born of hope and memory, says not thus: And joy for thee for me should mean not grief. And joy for thee, if ever soul of man Found joy in change and life of ampler birth Than here pens in the spirit for a span, Must be the life that doubt calls death on earth. For if, beyond the shadow and the sleep, A place there be for souls without a stain, Where peace is perfect, and delight more deep Than seas or skies that change and shine again, There none of all unsullied souls that live May hold a surer station: none may lend More light to hope's or memory's lamp, nor give More joy than thine to those that called thee friend. Yea, joy from sorrow's barren womb is born When faith begets on grief the godlike child: As midnight yearns with starry sense of morn In Arctic summers, though the sea wax wild, So love, whose name is memory, thrills at heart, Remembering and rejoicing in thee, now Alive where love may dream not what thou art But knows that higher than hope or love art thou. "Whatever heaven, if heaven at all may be, Await the sacred souls of good men dead, There, now we mourn who loved him here, is he," So, sweet and stern of speech, the Roman said,