As a bird’s wing,
Against the soft warm body gathering
Its folded feathers, closes and is still
When the wind-wandering bird has dropped to rest
On the green bough beside her hidden nest;
So my blind will
Wanders no more, nor beats the empty air,
Nor follows hot-foot to their phantom lair
Beguilement of the ear, lust of the eye
And all such pageantry
As lures men from fulfilment of desire;
Wanders no more, but entering that small house
Which Love has made his palace, lights the fire,
Bars door and shutter, sets the wine and bread
Where the tall candles shed
Soft lustre, and stands ready to carouse
With her who is the mistress of the house.