' When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand, and go with him

To the deep wells of light, And we will step down as to a stream

And bathe there in God's sight.

1 We two will stand beside that shrine,

Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps tremble continually

With prayer sent up to God ; And where each need, reveal'd, expects

Its patient period.

1 We two will lie i' the shadow of

That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove

Sometimes is felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch

Saith His name audibly.

'And 1 myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his mouth

Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, Finding some knowledge at each pause,

And some new thing to know/

(Alas ! to her wise simple mind These things were all but known

Before : they trembled on her sense, Her voice had caught their tone.

Alas for lonely Heaven ! Alas For life wrung out alone !

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