That Hour When Thou And Grief Were First Acquainted Thou Wrotest, "Come, For I Have Lookt On Death." Piteous I Held My Indeterminate Breath And Sought Thee Out, And Saw How He Had Painted Thine Eyes With Rings Of Black; Yet Never Fainted Thy Radiant Immortality Underneath Such Stress Of Dark; But Then, As One That Saith, "I Know Love Liveth," Sat On By Death Untainted. O To Whom Grief Too Poignant Was And Dry To Sow In Thee A Fountain Crop Of Tears! O Youth, O Pride, Set Too Remote And High For Touch Of Solace That Gives Grace To Men! Thy Life Must Be Our Death, Thy Hopes Our Fears: We Weep, Thou Lookest Strangely--We Know Thee Then!