The Presentation

When in the womb of Time our souls' own son Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour, Long months I knew not that sweet life begun, Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power; And wandering all those days By far-off ways, Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower. Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art I do remember, now that memory's vain, How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain. Then dreamed I Love's increase, Yet held my peace Till I might render thee thy own great gift again. For as with bodies, so with souls it is, The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive: That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this, And by my pangs beseech thee to believe. Look on his hope divine— Thy hope and mine— Pity his outstretched hands, tenderly him receive!