Page:A channel passage and other poems (IA channelpassageot00swinrich).pdf/88

 For memory, blind with bliss, To love, to clasp, to kiss, So sweetly strange as this, The sense that here the sun first hailed her face, A babe at Her glad mother's breast, And here again beholds it more beloved and blest.

Love's own heart, a living Spring of strong thanksgiving, Can bid no strength of welling song find way When all the soul would seek One word for joy to speak, And even its strength makes weak The too strong yearning of the soul to say What may not be conceived or said While darkness makes division of the quick and dead.

Haply, where the sun Wanes, and death is none, The word known here of silence only, held Too dear for speech to wrong,