Lxxi

Ye who have the stable world In the keeping of your hands. Flocks and men, the lasting hills, And the ever-wheeling stars;

Ye who freight with wondrous things The wide-wandering heart of man And the galleon of the moon, On those silent seas of foam;

Oh, if ever ye shall grant Time and place and room enough To this fond and fragile heart Stifled with the throb of love,

On that day one grave-eyed Fate, Pausing in her toil, shall say, “Lo, one mortal has achieved Immortality of love!”