Not from the blow that shall deliver death Or sleep unstirred by any thought of thee; Not from the slow diminishing of breath That shall at last steal memory from me; Not from such things, amazed, would I shrink, But from the loss of intimate delight In this, the world we loved -- this vibrant link Between all beauty and the deeper sight. These fields with walls made holy by dead hands -- Stones that are journeys by both man and beast -- These pastures greener than all other lands, Where the plows broke and sweating teams were eased, Should I grow blind to these -- ah, Love! In fear My flesh would pass, leaving my spirit here. |