Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/66



THIS is a haunt of Peace! This room, Like some still convent-cell White-wall’d and innocently bare, Knoweth her presence well.

Her breath hath touch’d this quiet air, Her hand these quiet rills; Her kiss yet lingers at the heart Of these shy daffodils.

As fields with dew, yon spacious sky Is sooth’d with her decree; These open-hearted lonely hills Are made her sanctuary.

O that so consecrate and calm’d, O that so sure a shrine, So purposéd and so fulfill’d Were this hot heart of mine!