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No, no, by all the martyrs, and the dear dead Christ ;
By the long bright roll of those whom joy enticed
With her myriad blandishments, but could not win,
Who would fight for victory, but would not sin.

By these, our elder brothers, who have gone before,
And have left their trail of light upon our shore,
We can see the glory of a seeming shame,
We can feel the fulness of an empty name.

Has God become enfeebled in His old, old age ?
Must the whole creation take our narrow gauge ?
Are there no deep thunders which we cannot hear ?
Does the star cease shining when it shines not here ?

No, no, we know, dead Knowledge, that it is not so,
And we feel, dull Feeling, that our souls must grow ;
As the tree feels light, and as the earth feels rain,
So we live till morning : — kiss me, love, once again.