Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/61

Rh Vanished; but the poet, he

In whose dream your face appears,

He who ranges unknown years

With your music in his heart,

Speaks to you familiarly

Where you keep apart,

And invents you as you were.

And your picture, oh, my nun,

Is a strangely easy one,

For the holy weed you wear,

For your hidden eyes and hidden hair,

And in picturing you I may

Scarcely go astray.

Oh, the vague reality!

The mysterious certainty!

Oh, strange truth of these my guesses

In the wide thought-wildernesses!

—Truth of one divined of many flowers;

Of one raindrop in the showers

Of the longago swift rain;

Of one tear of many tears

In some world-renownéd pain;