—     4     — 
 
That would in words flash forth the holiest heaven 
That to the immortal God of Gods is given, 
And, tongue-tied, stammers forth  —  my wife ! 
 
I am dumb with rapture of thy loveliness. 
All metres match and mingle ;  all words tire ; 
All lights, all sounds, all perfumes, all gold stress 
Of the honey-palate, all soft strokes expire 
In abject agony of broken sense 
To hymn the emotion tense 
Of somewhat higher  —  O !  how highest !  —  than all 
Their mystery :  fall, O fall, 
Ye unavailing eagle-flights of song ! 
O wife !  these do thee wrong. 
 
Thou knowest how I was blind ; 
How for mere minutes thy pure presence 
Was nought ;  was ill-defined ; 
A smudge across the mind, 
Drivelling in its brutal essence, 
Hog-wallowing in poetry, 
Incapable of thee. 
 
Ah !  when the minutes grew to hours, 
And yet the beast, the fool, saw flowers 
And loved them, watched the moon rise, took delight 
In perfumes of the summer night,