Such faith, no knowledge now can try, With urgent Wherefor, Why, To dim the brightness of her old belief. Out of her very grief Has grown this rich content, Easing her soul in its lone banishment. And often, in her dreams, the skies are riven With a great light, till her accustomed eyes Behold the blaze of heaven. The angels are, moving in beauty there. Queen Victoria's statue is the work of her daughter Beatrice.
Harsh echoes blow from far.
With wandering steps and slow once again their garden leave little Adam, little Eve. Within his arms I feared to sink Where lions shook their manes, And dragons drawn in azure ink Lept quickened by his veins. No deeper than the tips. The moment we came to part, And on his knuckles I read my name Enscrolled with a heart. And they cannot bother us much.