Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/64



Life of my love, love of my life, in vain

I marshall every phrase that speech supplies:

The summits of my meaning yet remain

Cloud-capped, above the flat familiar plain

Of spoken thought, unsealed against the skies!

The mute interrogation of your eyes

My own must mutely meet. Ah, touch my hand,

And, like a child, instruct me in what wise

I may contrive to make you understand

The love that aught but silence must profane!

, 1901.