ROSEMARY 
81 
 
Whose wickedness was never fain to faint, 
 Through these dull years still cherishing the spark 
Of Thy dear godhead in him—happy saint !   
 
Who hath Thy light within him in the dark 
 Ready to burst again to ruddier dawn 
An Thou shouldst travel in Thine holy bark 
 
To drip Thy dews upon the thirsty lawn, 
 And wake to song beatified the bird. 
But art Thou living, Lord, or far withdrawn 
 
Into the shrines of solitude unstirred ?   
 O Pan !  have pity on the trembling faun !   
In all Thy silence is there not one word ?