Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/251

 Not like these dying lights Of worlds whose glory smites The passage of the nights Through heaven's blind prison: Not like their souls who see, If thought fly far and free, No heavenlier heaven to be for souls rerisen.

A soul wherein love shone Even like the sun, alone, With fervour of its own And splendour fed, Made by no creeds less kind Toward souls by none confined, Could Death's self quench or blind, Love's self were dead.