Page:Songs of the Springtides - Swinburne (1880).pdf/125

 And round them like a dove Wounded, and sick with love, One fair ghost moving, crowned with fateful flowers, Watched yet with eyes of bloodred lust

But sadder always under shadowier skies, More pale and sad and clear Waxed always, drawn more near, The face of Duty lit with Love's own eyes; Till the awful hands that culled in rosier hours From fairy-footed fields of wild old flowers And sorcerous woods of Rhineland, green and hoary, Young children's chaplets of enchanted story, The great kind hands that showed Exile its homeward road, And, as man's helper made his foeman God,