They are but plaisters of cool leaves that dip 
In pleasant water to the white-hot wise 
Terrible flames of hell that would devour me, 
Did not the raptures of thy love embower me 
In meads Elysian, fields of foamless fire, 
Nights of invincible desire, 
Things beyond words, beyond the want of them, 
Beyond the pauses and the ecstasies  .  .  .  . 
Where should my dream get such a diadem 
Of voiceless thoughts as these ? 
 
 
XIII 
 
HESE dreams reform 
  Themselves into a rainbow to the storm 
Of simple passion ;  let me from the string 
Take many-coloured wing 
As a swift-thoughted arrow 
Vertically shot against the sun ! 
I would you were a sow 
And these my verses were your squealing farrow 
That they might suck the milk of your perfection 
Unto them, that the world’s ear might be won, 
The world’s heart melted now, 
The world’s mind drawn from its dejection, 
By the sure fact that not in idle dream 
But sole in sense supreme 
Certainly visible and tangible 
13 
T