The mighty tides of fate still ebb and flow. The mighty moons of fortune wax and wane. Death and disaster out of pleasure grow And God's high ecstasy returns again. Some green, delightful oases are found In the enormous desert of despair, Some lovely acres of enchanted ground, Some sunny regions of celestial air. But that which grows where nothing flourisheth, And that which blooms where ruin else would be, And that which heals the sting of even death Is love -- and I love thee and thou lov'st me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF MR. PURCELL by JOHN DRYDEN ON SEEING AN OLD POET IN THE CAFE ROYAL by JOHN BETJEMAN A BUDDING MORROW by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE CHAMPION (SUGGESTED BY A STORY OF JACK LONDON) by BERTON BRALEY THE INDIAN SIGN by BERTON BRALEY ODE ENTREATING HIM ... IN THE CONTINUATION OF BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS by NICHOLAS BRETON |