This poem was first published in Cor Cordium (1913).
Come back again. What speech or sound
   Fell from my lips and troubled thee?
What shaft, what arrow, or what wound
   Hath ended our dream-mystery?

I blame thee not if thou dost tire
   Of endless praise heaped on thy head
As if thy only sane desire
   Were to be with such madness led.

Nor that thou hidest for a space,
   Nor heedest when the throstle calls,
Like convent nun with hooded face,
   Within the shadow of thy walls.

Earth droops beneath the scorching sun,
   For ever full of blinding beam,
And rivers will not always run,
   But somewhere wave aside in dream;

But when the burning hour is past,
   That stills the music of the springs,
And comes the cooling breath at last
   With incense waving at its wings;

Revives the pleasant earth with showers,
   The mountain rills go singing on,
New glories shine amid the flowers,
   Faintness and fear together gone.

Forgive the idly-spoken word,
   The child of passion, poorly drest,
I would not arm the cruel sword,
   Or point one arrow at thy breast.

Since love, through sorrow, fairer grows,
   And skies are bluer after rain,
And tears harm not the soulful rose,
   So shall our numbers glide again.

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