Iii

We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can-- Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air-- It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh-- It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark-- Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change.