Ere this divinest draught of love I drank I quaffed the wine of any loveliness, To make the burden of my vigils less And mingle sweet oblivion with the rank Leas of the world: on some cold breast I sank, Mad with a moment's torturing caress, And knew the tempest of the blood, the stress, The pang, the dream, the waking, and the blank. Now, though the waves still surge, the storm is over, The wind is down, and will not waft the rover. To heaven and to time I leave the rest. The love of thee, the love of truth, is best, For thou hast given, angel, to thy lover, Wings to his soul and patience to his breast. |