Now wars and waters, stars

And wires, the dead hand in the iron glove;

The bolted winds that ride death’s cars;

Guns, gallows, barracks, poles and bars;

Seem to have laboured but to fetch us love.

Planets that burn and freeze

Now wring their hands, or forced to please,

Must twine them in a dance instead:

Distraught cosmogonies

Like bad old baffled fairies stand,

Where we, your head upon my hand,

Or sleeping hand in hand, or head by head,

Have closed the book of the day, and gone to bed.

But body, now be deep:

Worn hornbook, Mirror of the Sinful Soul,

Or Abbey of the Holy Ghost, The Keep

Of Spiritual Valour, keep

Your foxed and wormed and rusty pages whole,

That we may read our way.

Like an old lantern by whose ray

We hope to find a better light,

Glow feebly as you may;

Be torn and tattered, interleaved,

One chapter will not be achieved,

Until we read by touch as well as sight,

And learn to turn the pages, kiss and write.