Ii

There is a blackness in the apple-trees Of tempest,--like the ashes of an urn Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees, With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:-- And there is death among the blooms, that fill The night with breathless scent,--as when, above The priest, the vision of his faith doth will Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof, Saying: “Behold! a silence never still: And love that’s more than love.”