O sweet wind of the night, wherewith now ariseth The red moon through the garden boughs frail, overladen, O faint murmuring tongue of the dream-tide triumphant, That wouldst tell me sad tales in the times long passed over, If somewhat I sicken and turn to your freshness, From no shame it is of earth's tangle and trouble, And deeds done for nought, and change that forgetteth; But for hope of the lips that I kissed on the sea-strand, But for hope of the hands that clung trembling about me,-- And the breast that was heaving with words driven backward, By longing I longed for, by pain of departing, By my eyes that knew her pain, my pain that might speak not-- Yea, for hope of the morn when the sea is passed over, And for hope of the next moon the elm-boughs shall tangle; And fresh dawn, and fresh noon, and fresh night of desire Still following and changing, with nothing forgotten; For hope of new wonder each morn, when I, waking Behold her awaking eyes turning to seek me; For hope of fresh marvels each time the world changing Shall show her feet moving in noontide to meet me; For hope of fresh bliss, past all words, half forgotten, When her voice shall break through the hushed blackness of night. --O sweet wind of the summer-tide, broad moon a-whitening, Bear me witness to Love, and the world he has fashioned! It shall change, we shall change, as through rain and through sunshine The green rod of the rose-bough to blossoming changeth: Still lieth in wait with his sweet tale untold of Each long year of Love, and the first scarce beginneth, Wherein I have hearkened to the word God hath whispered, Why the fair world was fashioned mid wonders uncounted. Breathe soft, O sweet wind, for surely she speaketh: _Weary I wax, and my life is a-waning; Life lapseth fast, and I faint for thee, Pharamond,_ _What are thou lacking if Love no more sufficeth?_ --Weary not, sweet, as I weary to meet thee; Look not on the long way but my eyes that were weeping Faint not in love as thy Pharamond fainteth!-- --Yea, Love were enough if thy lips were not lacking. THE MUSIC _LOVE IS ENOUGH: ho ye who seek saving, Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it, And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving; These know the Cup with the roses around it; _These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it: Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!" He leadeth, He hearkeneth, He cometh to you-ward; Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the froward: Lo his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble! Lo his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble! Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us home!"