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 The Bridegroom's arm, and that long kiss That kissed away your breath, and claimed you His. You did, with thrift of holy gain, Unvenoming the sting of pain, Hive its sharp heather-honey. Ye Had sentience of the mystery To make Abaddon's hooked wings Buoy you up to starry things; Pain of heart, and pain of sense, Pain the scourge, ye taught to cleanse; Pain the loss became possessing; Pain the curse was pain the blessing.

Chains, rack, hunger, solitude,—these, Which did your soul from earth release, Left it free to rush upon And merge in its compulsive Sun. Desolated, bruised, forsaken, Nothing taking, all things taken, Lacerated and tormented, The stifled soul, in naught contented, On all hands straitened, cribbed, denied, Can but fetch breath o' the Godward side. Oh, to me, give but to me That flower of felicity, Which on your topmost spirit ware The difficult and snowy air Of high refusal! and the heat Of central love which fed with sweet And holy fire i' the frozen sod Roots that ta'en hold on God.

Unwithering youth in you renewed Those rosy waters of your blood,—