Vii

Let it not grieve thee, Dear, that Love is sad, Who, changeless, loveth so the things that change,-- The morning in thine eyes, the dusk within thy hair, Were it not strange If he were glad Who cannot keep thy heart from care, Or shelter from the whip of pain The bosom where his head hath lain? Poor sentinel, that may not guard The door that love itself unbarred! Who in the sweetness Of his service knows its incompleteness, And while he sings Of life eternal, feels the coldness of Death's wings.