70 
TELEPATHY 
 
 
To some black cavern of the vast 
 On some demonic pinion. 
And here we lie—discrowned at last— 
 A monarch grown a minion. 
 
Yea ;  we are come from the bright God 
To some most desolate abode. 
 
 
Or is it crowned, thrice crowned, we are ?   
 Crowned with long thorns sharp-gleaming, 
So that bright blood jets out afar 
 From starry brains a-streaming ?   
Yea !  in our night there shines a star 
 Beyond our dearest dreaming. 
 
Yea ;  there is born a fearful light 
Proceeding from the Infinite. 
 
 
However that may be, ’tis clear 
 What duty bids endeavour :   
To find you out in London, dear,— 
 A ‘ now ’ is worth a ‘ never ’ !— 
To make to-day a heaven of cheer, 
 And make to-day ‘ for ever ’ !   
 
Yea ;  though we know how springs run dry, 
We’ll trust our future, you and I. 
 
 
Ah, madman !  was there ever yet 
 A love that lived a lustre