Xxxi

Love, let the wind cry On the dark mountain, Bending the ash-trees And the tall hemlocks, With the great voice of Thunderous legions, How I adore thee.

Let the hoarse torrent In the blue canyon, Murmuring mightily Out of the grey mist Of primal chaos, Cease not proclaiming How I adore thee.

Let the long rhythm Of crunching rollers, Breaking and bellowing On the white seaboard, Titan and tireless, Tell, while the world stands, How I adore thee.

Love, let the clear call Of the tree-cricket, Frailest of creatures, Green as the young grass, Mark with his trilling Resonant bell-note, How I adore thee.

Let the glad lark-song Over the meadow, That melting lyric Of molten silver, Be for a signal To listening mortals, How I adore thee.

But more than all sounds, Surer, serener, Fuller with passion And exultation, Let the hushed whisper In thine own heart say, How I adore thee.