Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/249



of our ways and woes, Forth of the winds and snows, A white soul soaring goes, Winged like a dove: So sweet, so pure, so clear, So heavenly tempered here, Love need not hope or fear her changed above:

Ere dawned her day to die, So heavenly, that on high Change could not glorify Nor death refine her: Pure gold of perfect love, On earth like heaven's own dove, She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.

Her voice in heaven's own quire Can sound no heavenlier lyre Than here no purer fire Her soul can soar: No sweeter stars her eyes In unimagined skies Beyond our sight can rise than here before,