But what is in your heart, my dear

But what is in your heart, my dear? If every hope is spun of fear, And each delight is called despair By those who think and those who dare.

What good to you is blue and gold? A love unlit, a tale untold, A dream undreamt, which tries to keep Secure within a fort of sleep?

What though your gleaming hair be spun Out of the fabric of the sun? What if the gentian in your eyes Is stolen from the deepest skies? The sun will set, the brightness fade, Into a grey decline of shade. Then, dearest, let it not be said Your eyes were drowned in tears unshed, Frightened you locked your love away Into the cold and sure decay Of unused things, that voiceless die Without a laugh, without a cry— Is not all rapture wrought of pain? Unweeping you rejoice in vain. There is no smile without a tear; There is no courage without fear. Therefore, my love, if you would live You first must lose and then must give, You first must dream and then may sleep; There is no wasting save to keep,— So when the flowers in your eyes Have proved by death that nothing dies, Your gold forlorn has turned to grey, Victorious you still shall say: “I’ve known all torment, felt all bliss, Each burning tear, each icy kiss, And hopeless hope and fearless fear, Reason enthronèd, thought austere. Fashioned of folly, I am wise; Out of my joys I’ve stolen sighs; With broken bits I’ve built a heart. There is no whole without a part. Though tears and laughter dim my eyes I’ve taught the setting sun to rise; Though life be tired and love be old, My dream is dreamt, my tale is told.”