# The poems of Richard Watson Gilder/In Helena's Garden

IN HELENA'S GARDEN
IN HELENA'S GARDEN
PART I
IN HELENA'S GARDEN
THE SUNSET WINDOW
Through the garden sunset-window Shines the sky of rose; Deep the melting red, and deeper, Lovelier it grows.
Musically falls the fountain; Twilight voices chime; Visibly upon the cloud-lands Tread the feet of Time.
Evening winds from down the valley Stir the waters cool; Break the dark, empurpled shadows In the marble pool.
Rich against the high-walled grayness The crimson lily glows, And near, O near, one well-loved presence Dream-like comes and goes.
"THE GRAY WALLS OF THE GARDEN"
The gray walls of the garden Hold many and many a bloom; A flame of red against the gray Is lightning in the gloom.
​The gray walls of the garden Hold grassy walks between Bright beds of yellow blossoms, Golden against the green.
And in the roof of the arbor Leaves woven through and through,— Great grape leaves, making shadows,— Shine green against the blue.
And, O, in the August weather What wonders new are seen! Long beds of azure blossoms Cool blue against the green.
The gray walls of the garden Hold paths of pure delight, And, in the emerald, blooms of pearl Are white against the night.
THE MARBLE POOL
The marble pool, like the great sea, hath moods— Fierce angers, slumbers, deep beatitudes.
In sudden gusts the pool, in lengthened waves,— As in a mimic tempest,—tosses and raves.
In the still, drowsy, dreaming midday hours It sleeps and dreams among the dreaming flowers.
'Neath troubled skies the surface of its sleep Is fretted; how the big drops rush and leap!
Now 't is a mirror where the sky of night Sees its mysterious face of starry light;
​Or where the tragic sunset is reborn, Or the sweet, virginal mystery of morn.
One little pool holds ocean, brink to brink; One little heart can hold the world, I think.
THE TABLE ROUND
I
What think you of the Table Round Which the garden's rustic arbor In pride doth harbor? And what its weight, how many a pound? Or shall you reckon that in tons? For this is of earth's mighty ones: A mill-stone 't is, that turns no more, But, on a pier sunk deep in ground, Like a ship that s come to shore, Content among its flowery neighbors It rests forever from its labors.
II
Now no more 'mid grind and hammer Are the toiling moments past, But amid a milder clamor Stays it fast. For the Garden Lady here, When the summer sky is clear, With her bevy of bright daughters (Each worth a sonnet) To the tune of plashing waters Serves the tea upon it.
III
And when Maria, and when Molly, Frances, Alice, Grace, Cecilia, Clara, Bess, and Pretty Polly, ​Lolah and the dark Amelia, Come with various other ladies, Certain boys, and grown-ups graver— Then, be sure, not one afraid is To let his wit give forth its flavor, With the fragrant odor blent Of the Souchong, and the scent Of the roses and sweet-peas And other blossoms sweet as these. Then, indeed, doth joy abound About the granite table round, And the stream of laughter flowing Almost sets the old stone going.
THE SUN-DIAL
On the sun-dial in the garden The great sun keeps the time; A faint, small moving shadow, And we know the worlds are in rhyme;
And if once that shadow should falter By the space of a child's eye-lash— The seas would devour the mountains, And the stars together crash.
"SOMETHING MISSING FROM THE GARDEN"
Something missing from the garden? But all's bright there; Color in the daytime, Perfume in the night there.
Something wanting in the garden? Yet the blossoms ​Bring the hum-birds to the sweetness In their bosoms.
And by day the sunlight golden On the granite Glistens, and by night the silver starlight From some near planet.
Something missing from the garden? But the mountain Ceaseless pours a secret streamlet Filmy from the fountain;
And that streamlet winds blow, wave-like, Down the flowers, And, in the mist, faint, flickering rainbows Flash through mimic showers.
Something wanting in the garden When all's bright there? Color in the daytime, Perfume in the night there?
Then what missing from the garden Spoils its pleasance?— Just a breath of something human; Just one presence.
THREE FLOWERS OF THE GARDEN
Three blossoms in a happy garden grow— Have care, for this one, lo, is white as any snow: Its name is Peace.
Three flowers—and one, in hue, a delicate gold; A harsh breath, then its golden leaves shall droop and fold Its name is Joy.
​Three flowers—and one is crimson, rich and strong; This will, if well entreated, all others outlive long: Its name is Love.
EARLY AUTUMN
The garden still is green And green the trees around— But the winds are roaring overhead And branches strew the ground.
And to-day on the garden pool Floated an autumn leaf: How rush the seasons, rush the years, And, O, how life is brief!
THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN
One by one the flowers of the garden To autumn yielded as waned the sun; So prisoners, called by the cruel Terror, To death went, one by one.
Roses, and many a delicate blossom, Down fell their heads, in the breezes keen, One by one; and the frost of autumn Was the blade of their guillotine.
And at last an hour when the emerald pathways Grew from green to a wintry white; And a new, strange beauty came into the garden In the full moon's flooding light.
For a radiance struck on the columned fountain As it shot to the stars in a trembling stream, And a rainbow, springing above the garden, Was the dream of a dream in a dream.
​And we who loved well that place of flowers Looked with awe on the wondrous birth, And knew that the last flower of the garden Was something not of earth.
PART II
THE LION OF TYRINGHAM
Midway the valley, fronting the flusht morn, The huge beast stretches prone, as by the Nile The enormous Sphinx; so nature mimics nature, And man's own art—tho' never such vast shape By man was fashioned. Thus through ages long Hath he the tempest and the rain endured, And the all-rending frost, and the great sun, And the remorseless winters of the world.
What shall that immemorial rest disturb? His monstrous head down prest betwixt huge paws How well he sleeps! Not deeper slumber holds The dead in the white city far below. And shall he waken?—Shall the dead awake?
THE VOICE OF THE HIGHT
I
Of a dream I would sing and a river I saw in a dream— Of souls that the river divided, so wide was the stream, So wide and so deep that neither the other beheld. And they gazed on the ocean near, by terror compelled— On the infinite ocean whither their barks had been hurled In a tempest that drove from the ultimate, unseen world. ​By that ocean they stood in awe, and remembrance, and wonder; Troubled their hearts with the ceaseless surge and the thunder— Till in fear they turned, and they gazed on the inland hight, And the mountains that called by day and beckoned by night, And, each to the other unknown, by that call was shaken: O, lost is the soul that the voice of the hight shall not waken, Nor heavenward climb by the paths high hearts have taken.
II
Inland the new souls urged, by river and marsh, Treading with stedfast feet the roadways harsh. Inland and up through fields of flower or thorn, Through forests rude, and through desert ways forlorn— Upward and on by meadows blossoming bright Or where, under pestilent breath, the earth was blight; Onward and up—and still by the river's brink Where, nigh unto death, they lived by the living drink.
III
And now, behold, they nearer and nearer drew Till each pilgrim soul the other beheld and knew, And climbing thus ever higher, they came more nigh, Above the enfolding mists, 'neath the bending sky— Till at last at the river's source, near the mountain's crest, At the selfsame spring they drank, and the waters of rest; For they followed the paths high hearts have climbed to the sun, And the souls that the river divided became as one.
A SONG OF FRIENDSHIP
We have come nearer, friend! The thought of each, to each Shines clearer, dearer, friend!
All doubts have fled away; Strange deeds and baffling speech Now are clear as day.
Naught between us, naught To hurt or separate; No battles to be fought.
Friends now, in more than name; Forever friends, our fate— Tho' never again the same.
We have come nearer, friend! Would it were not so late, But all the dearer, friend!
What sorcery, new and strange, What word, what mystic token, Has worked the wondrous change?
No word of secret powers, Nothing sung or spoken, Only the near, dear hours
Under the starry sky; Trust and peace unbroken; Silence, and a sigh.
A ROSE OF DREAM
I dreamed a rose; it bloomed Beyond compare; Of all wild blossoms by the wayside Most rich, most sweet, most rare.
So lovely was the rose I could but love it, As, drinking deep its fragrant soul, I bent above it.
O tenderly its leaves Outbreathed their beauty; Humbly to worship at that shrine Was my dear duty.
Once, when in the twilight hour, Its spirit drew me— O wonderful! I was aware That wild rose knew me.
Knew me, my inmost heart— And, O above All joy imagined! lo! my rose Gave love for love.
SONG
O, whither has she fled from out the dawning and the day? Empty is the dark of her, and twilight silver gray, For the world that she makes happy now is far and far away.
​Strange, because a girl is gone the stars are not so bright, The sunset sky not fair as once, nor morning after night, While from the day has past away a dear and lovely light.
Come back, come back, my darling girl, and set the stars aglow; And make the daylight dear again, and make the blossoms blow; Come back, come back, my golden girl, never again to go.
"WHEN THE GIRLS COME TO THE OLD HOUSE"
I
When the girls come To the old house, to the old, old home; When the girls race through it, How will they endue it With light and warmth and fun, Beyond the touch of the sun.
II
When the girls run through it, How the old house will awaken! Never fear! It will not rue it When it feels its old bones shaken, From ancient sill to centuried rafter, With sweet girl laughter.
III
When the girls race through it, How each old ghost in its own old nook, ​That it never forsook, How it will run When the girls pursue it With frolic and fun!
IV
Old house! old home! Come, light The fires again on the dear hearths of old. All must be bright; Not a room shall be cold; And on the great hearth,—where, in the old days, Beside the fierce blaze There was room, and to spare, for each grown-up and child,— High let the fire be piled!
V
Old house! Old home! You need no wine To cheer you now, for the joyous ripple Of girlish laughter is quite enough tipple! O, what liquor Like the innocent shine, The sparkle and flicker, In the eyes of youth! And, of a truth, 'T is youth, old house! 't is youth that fills you; Youth that calls to you; youth that thrills you.
VI
Old house! Old home! O, do not dare To be sad, tho' aware Of the golden, and the raven, and the pretty, pretty curls, Of the little dead girls— Treasures put away in the old chest in the garret. Be glad, old house! the new girls have come to share it: The great, deep hearth, with room and to spare; ​The dark garret, and the wide hall, and the quaint, old stair— And to bring back to earth The old, sweet mirth.
THE SONG OF A SONG
I
"When in the morning you wake," Said the Song; "You shall remember me All the day long, As the bird remembers the tree, As the swan remembers the lake. And when the stars go, one by one, Like bright souls banished, Your heart shall echo the Song of the sad Stars vanished.
II
"When comes the day, with rush and run, Over the roofs the shadow from the rising sun that falls,— Over the roofs and down the walls, Along the roofs and over the brink,— This shall make you think Of the Song that sang the Shadow, and sang the Sun.
III
"And the narrow street, This have I sung so sweet That you cannot, even if you would, Lose the Song; and your feet Its music shall repeat, As a bird sings in a wood— Cheerily, cheerily sings, Remembering lovely things.
IV
"And the vine on the house where you live," Said the Song, 'The vine that I sang in blossom, or wintry bare— You shall sing to yourself the air Of the Song of the Vine; it shall follow you everywhere; Of the vine like a silent, purple cataract pouring down, Here in the midst of the noise and the dust of the town. Are you gay? Do you grieve?— The Song will find you; Whether you stay or go the Vine will remind you Of the Song of the Vine, the Song of the House of the Vine— The Song of Home, and Children, and Love Divine.
V
"And the Song of the Stars, and the Shadow, and Rising Sun, And the Song of the Street, Whose music is in your feet, And the Song of the Vine, and the House of the Vine— One poet has sung them all, And they are but one," Said the Song.
THE NET
Caught in the golden net of the poet's song, And held there close and long, How many a marvelous thing! A humming-bird's invisible wing; A rose that sent its luring fragrance through night air, Taken all unaware; ​The star of dawn that knew not human eyes Dared its inviolate secrecies; A tear shed by an archangel who looked down On an unpitying town; A maiden's dream wherefrom she woke And into secret, silent tremors broke; And (O, ye wandering, wan and wayward feet, Beware that music piercing sweet— That all too ravishing art!) Caught in the golden net of the poet's song, (Pray Heaven there come no wrong!) One little, fluttering heart.
SONG
O purer far than ever I! Be nobler than to choose me: Flee from me, Sweet; I fain would die If thou shouldst not refuse me.
And when I'm dead, and thou, too, Sweet, Because I did refuse thee; Perhaps our new-born souls may meet And know, and I not lose thee.
SONG
I awoke in the morning not knowing What it was that had set my heart glowing; Something had come to me That was the sum to me Of all human happiness—crown of life's bliss. Tho' drowsyhead sleep its image might blot, I knew it was there, tho' its shape I forgot. My mind was blue sky with nothing but joy in it; ​Not even a dream of the night had employ in it; No cloud dimmed the blue; Then I said: "Shall I miss My nameless, new bliss?" When sudden it came Like lightning, like flame; And, ah, it was this— It was you!
"WHEN THE WAR FLEET PUTS TO SEA"
When the war fleet puts to sea, And the great guns thunder, Our hearts leap up in glee And awe and wonder— When the war fleet puts to sea.
Let it be peace, not war, The strong ships carry; Two coasts that stretch afar Now meet and marry— Let it be peace, not war.
And let no ill befall! Be kind, ye fates! Stern skies preserve them all In the stormy straits— O, let no ill befall.
And if dread war shall loom In far-off days, Let the shotted cannon boom In prayer and praise— If dreadful war shall loom.
​Behind the bellowing guns That do their part, Let stand the nation's sons All pure in heart— Behind the bellowing guns.
Then not in pride or hate Let one shot speed; Be righteous souls elate To do the deed— O, not in pride or hate.
And thou, Eternal Power! Bring swift the day When Right shall rule the hour, And Peace alone have sway— O, high Eternal Power!
ART
(MISS GERALDINE FARRAR IN "MADAMA BUTTERFLY")
A little, loosened leaf of painted paper Slow quivering down From a stage Nagasaki cherry-tree That screens a painted town.
And flitting back and forth in silken robes A figure slight, With orient gestures, and fixt orient smile, And voice of pure delight.
And every note she sang and word she spoke Was for her writ; Not nature here, but art and artifice, And cunning human wit.
​Yet when that paper petal trembled down, Spring thrilled the air; And when she sang, I knew love's hight and depth And passion and despair.
IN PRAISE OF PORTRAITURE
Myriads of souls from out the unknown vast Flash forth and swift return. Tho' something stays,— Remembered words and deeds,—the look they wore Were lost forever save for the art we praise— The art that holds the fleeting spirit fast: Afield, in household ways, at rest, a-dance; The sweet, companionable presence; the austere Demeanor, hiding a rich heart; the glance, Intense and penetrant, that says a soul is here. A soul is here, even as in life it lived, It wantoned, it impassioned, joyed and grieved; So might an angel through life's doorway peer, Half drawing back as if in mortal fear; So might a lost soul linger, leaving here Remembrance of the horror of its doom: A living soul, defiant of the tomb.
Great were the masters of the art we praise, In other lands, in past and splendid days. What souls the chief Venetian in his art Makes to the eye apparent, and the heart! What warriors, princes, women all of grace: Beauty of body, loveliness of face! Master of color, he, well-nigh supreme, Who nobly drew that which before was dream! Glorious is Spain in the proud souls that breathe ​In that most delicate and subtle touch,— The art miraculous, the not too much,— Of him whose brows the generations wreathe With laurel on laurel, as the world grows old, And all its annals one Velasquez hold. And by the northern seas his art sublime That trembles with the tragedies of time— His art who knew all mysteries of light, Not less the heart of man; for in his sight No secret could endure, and on his page The soul's dark pathos lives from age to age. They live indeed, whom art has made to live— How real from the canvas forth they look And judgment seem on our own selves to give As we judge them. Miraculous art, that took Through all the centuries the tongue of praise, And worthy all honors, not for the old days Alone, and painters gone before—no less For those who dare discipleship confess And in the footsteps of the mighty tread. With modern skill the ancient mode they keep; On the old altar burns the authentic fire; Priests of the ancient faith, that never sleep; They, with new masters of the sacred lyre, And all the sons of genius, still aspire Purely and greatly; rendering our late time, Not less than that long gone, imperial, sublime!
Lady, shrink not that you, to-day, we name In the same breath with the age-conquering fame Of them most glorious in a mighty line. Not for the living is it to assign Rank to the living, in the long roll of art. But blame us not if here we crown the intent ​Not less than the sincere accomplishment. We only know the art we see and love Is beautiful, intense, most subtile, rare, And tho' with something from our New World air Athrill, yet is it masterful, above All else, with the old mastery—not old But fresh forever as the dawn's new gold. And in your art, that follows down the line Of the world's noblest,—the most high, divine Kinship of them who painted the deep soul,— Glows a clear, individual attribute; Something whereof the praiser would be mute Save that he needs must tell the very whole And in his office utterly faithful be: Something that means swift vision of the truth; The flame of life; the flush of endless youth; A trait compounded all of Poesy; A tone most exquisite, illuminate With the keen sense of Beauty which even art Can lift above itself; a throbbing heart; An element that sets the noonday beam Vibrant with tints; that makes the little, great; And while the artist would another render Reveals his own bright spirit in radiant splendor.
IN TIMES OF PEACE
'T was said: "When roll of drum and battle's roar Shall cease upon the earth, O, then no more
"The deed, the race, of heroes in the land." But scarce that word was breathed when one small hand
Lifted victorious o'er a giant wrong That had its victims crushed through ages long;
​Some woman set her pale and quivering face, Firm as a rock, against a man's disgrace;
A little child suffered in silence lest His savage pain should wound a mother's breast;
Some quiet scholar flung his gauntlet down And risked, in Truth's great name, the synod's frown;
A civic hero, in the calm realm of laws, Did that which suddenly drew a world's applause;
And one to the pest his lithe young body gave That he a thousand thousand lives might save.
IMPROMPTUS
EDWARD EVERETT HALE
Patriot, and sage, and lover of his kind— The love he gives a thousandfold returns: His is the wealth of love a great heart earns By giving all that heart and soul and mind.
BARDS OF BRITAIN (1908)
The poets silent and the poets fled? Not till these two that pluck the lyre are dead! He of the patriot heart and Milton's line, With soaring song and melody divine; And he who makes the old days breathe again, Yet sings the hour that is, and hearts of living men.
CALVÉ
Sweetness and strength, high tragedy and mirth; And but one Calvé on the singing earth!
IN A CONCERT ROOM
Two streams of music beat upon my heart— That which now is; that which was silent long: Sacred this temple of a deathless art, Whose very walls thrill with remembered song.
THE LONESOME WILD
Lovelier, lovelier this place Since here she brought her maiden grace; Dearer far this lonesome wild Since here she wandered, here she smiled.
NEW FRIENDS AND OLD
How wonderful and sweet New friends, as if forever known, to greet! The warm, new, kindred touch; the dear surprise To find an answer in new dawning eyes. But when old friends draw nearer— O dearer, dearer!
SHADOW AND SUN
I looked from the window with hungry eyes On the day long longed for, that must be bright: (That day of days, of the long, long night!) When, O dear Shadow! by thy divining I knew that the morn was bright: I knew by the shadow the sun was shining.
A NAVAL SURGEON OF THE WAR FOR THE UNION
Here was as loyal soul as ever drew The breath of battle, and the air of home: He duty followed, lonely and far to roam; To country, kindred, God, forever true.
A MOTHER'S PICTURE
Sweet dignity and tenderness and grace, Devotion, and the power to draw the heart: This her inheritance, her dower, her art; All these are radiant in that mother face.
ON A YOUNG HERO
Too soon? But heroes always die too soon! This, this it is that makes them dear and great. Grant us, O kindly Heaven, the supreme boon To give our lives too soon—not die too late!
A HERO'S BRIDE
What tragic loss! but, O, what gain sublime, What golden memory, life-enduring pride. What shall it matter, brief or long the time? Love of a noble soul—a hero's bride.
TO ONE WHO PRAISED "THE GAY LIFE"
Gay! as the hot crater's crust all lightning-lit— But one tread more, and horror of the pit! Gay! Yes, for a moment, and then weeping sorrow, With wild remorse to meet the dawning morrow.
LYRIC LIVES
There are more poets than the rhyming race; Souls beautiful of thought, and full of grace; The spirit of poetry in them breathes and thrives; They write not poems, but lead lyric lives.
SONG
A little longer still in summer suns, On wintry nights, and where the wild brook runs, To rest or wander; ​A little longer left for human joy; To win and lose,—man's masterful employ,— To dream and ponder.
A little longer! But, O, sweeter this Than any lesser grace or lowlier bliss In earth's wide blindness: A little longer left for lifting hearts, Healing hurt souls, for earth's most heavenly arts— For love and kindness.
THE SINGING RIVER
I
I read the poet's verses by the stream Where late with him I walked; the twilight gleam Faded, the page darkened, and from the sky The day, withdrawing gradual, came to die Slowly, into a memory and a sigh.
II
There as I read, the poet's lyric dream Mixt with the silvery clamor of the stream, And, tho' the night fell, and I read no more, Still on and on the mingled measures pour: "Beauty is one," they murmur o'er and o'er.
THE SOLACE OF THE SKIES
When fell the first great sorrow of my life,— He dying from whom my mortal frame was drawn,— Into the night I fled, long ere the dawn, Succor to bring for her, the stricken wife. ​Then first I knew the solace of the skies, And that mysterious mingling of the soul With the still beauty of the infinite whole; My heart was melted, and grew strangely wise. I was a child then, having little lore Taken from books, or the wide world of men, But something suddenly through my soul did pour Beyond all thought, all dream, all hope; since then Nor Death, nor Life, has been the same to me: Can grief the spirit kill, once touched by deity?
THE WINDING PATH
The winding path Come let us follow Along the lane And down by the hollow; For I would fain The way it passes,— Through the long grasses, The meadows, the woods,— Seek and learn it: What the moods, What true uses Lead and turn it, What abuses Break it, cloak it, Twist it, choke it. Now 't is a span; But onward still, Over the hill It wider grows, It firmer flows. The subtle path ​Its own thought hath; It is more wise Than you or I; As if with eyes That peer and try, It feels its way Across the day. What little feet Hard have packed it! What great hoofs Gouged and wracked it! Rude water-courses Cut across it, Rocks emboss it; A lichened cliff Its route enforces. Yet on it goes, And upward flows Through the dark pines In wayward lines; Past the birches Skyward it lurches: One more flight— And on the hight At last we stand, And catch the vision Of sky and land.
"WHAT MAKES THE GARDEN GROW"
What makes the garden grow In beauty and delight— A place to linger in by day or night, But chiefly when the long and level light ​Makes shadows that still glow With burning blossoms—the heart's home Wherefrom our charmèd feet reluctant roam. Not pride, nor envy, nor crude wealth Can bring the drooping roses health, Nor lift the sanguine poppies, row on row, Nor from their bed of green Make every iris spread it like a queen; While all along the wall The jeweled colors call. O, not from these can come the art That touches the deep heart, That makes the small blades shove Through the soft earth into a pictured balm above; Not sordid thoughts and low Can make the garden grow In beauty and delight, A place to linger in by day or night— Not these, not these, but love.
"IF, ONE GREAT DAY"
If, one great day, the God I see Aflame in blade and bush and tree, In the white dawn and passing sun— Shall I not joy in that clear sight And tell in song my strange delight, Tho' come a day when mist and cloud Shall the celestial presence shroud? O, shall I not be bold, And cry, "Behold!" Tho' swift the vision darkens and is done?
MUSIC BENEATH THE STARS
Music beneath the Stars! remembering him Who music loved, and who on such a night Had, through white paths celestial, winged his flight, Hearing the chanting of the cherubim— Which even our ears seem now to apprehend, Rising and falling in waves of splendid sound That bear our grieving spirits from the ground And with eternal things lift them and blend. Now Bach's great Aria charms the starlit dark; Now soars the Largo, high angelical, Soothing all mortal sorrow on that breath; And now, O sweet and sovereign strain! now hark Of mighty Beethoven the rise and fall. Such music 'neath the stars abolished death.
THE BIRDS OF WESTLAND
PRINCETON, JUNE, 1908
O birds of Westland, singing on As blithely as of yore! Do ye not know how deep he sleeps Behind yon closèd door?
Do ye not know that he who hailed Your music, dawn by dawn, Hath, since he harkened yesterday, From hearing been withdrawn?
O happy birds! I think ye know He loved your joyful song, And therefore in the growing light Ye carol loud and long.
​O birds! ye know he would not wish To hush that singing sweet, Tho' since he heard your music last That great heart ceased to beat.
THE VEIL OF STARS
O veil of stars! O dread magnificence! Not unto man, O, not to man is given The power to grasp with human sight and sense Him, clothed upon by all the stars of heaven And thou, O infinite littleness! not more Doth infinite distance and immensity That Presence veil, whom fain we would adore, If mortals might the immortal dimly see. Atoms and stars alike the Eternal hide, Nor know we if in light or darkness dwells The Ever Living! No voice from out the wide Intense of starlight the great secret tells; No word or sign in earth or skies above, Save one—the godhead in the eyes of love.