(@3Towards the End of the Ages of Faith@1) IF these I love, what love have I for Thee, Since in her treasuries the heart will be? Some, it may be, shall triumph, strong to seek And find both these and Thee. But I am weak. Unto mine idols am I wedded fast; And with them would I perish at the last. (O beauty of great colour, great desires, Great throes of music, clangour of great spires, Mystical marvel of great verse, great dream Of carven faces, and O thou supreme Beauty of perfect love, the perfect art,— Ye do consume with ecstasy mine heart. God's images?—Nay, for your only sake I flower and fade, labour and dream and wake.) Not Thee and these! Thou art too great and sweet To brook a cloven worship at Thy feet. I do not murmur. Fold Thy lovers, Thou, In Thy blue Arcady. But here and now I gather all the joy of Paradise With faint adoring hands, and soft stilled eyes. These perish; Thou endurest?—Even so. All perishing things are loveliest, I know. The Music these, the fainting Echo I,— Rather than live with Thee, with them I die! Nor shall thine angry trumpets rend that rest, For Thou art noble; and I love Them best. |