Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/176

 Love's euphony, In Love's own temple that is our glad hearts, Makes now long music wild deliciously; Now Grief hath used his darts.

Love infinite, Chastened by sorrow, hallowed by pure flame— Not all the surging world can compass it. Love—Love—O tremulous name!

God's mercy shines; And my full heart hath made record of this, Of grief that burst from out its dark confines Into strange sunlit bliss.