TILL darkness lays a hand on these gray eyes And out of man my ghost is sent alone, It is my chance to know that force and size Are nothing but by answered undertone. No beauty even of absolute perfection Dominates here -- the glance, the pause, the guess Must be my amulets of resurrection; Raindrops may murder, lightnings may caress. There I was tortured, but I cannot grieve; There crowned and palaced -- visibles deceive. That storm of belfried cities in my mind Leaves me my vespers cool and eglantined. From love's wide-flowering mountain-side I chose This sprig of green, in which an angel shows. |