In Your Arms Was Still Delight, Quiet As A Street At Night; And Thoughts Of You, I Do Remember, Were Green Leaves In A Darkened Chamber, Were Dark Clouds In A Moonless Sky. Love, In You, Went Passing By, Penetrative, Remote, And Rare, Like A Bird In The Wide Air, And, As The Bird, It Left No Trace In The Heaven Of Your Face. In Your Stupidity I Found The Sweet Hush After A Sweet Sound. All About You Was The Light That Dims The Greying End Of Night; Desire Was The Unrisen Sun, Joy The Day Not Yet Begun, With Tree Whispering To Tree, Without Wind, Quietly. Wisdom Slept Within Your Hair, And Long-Suffering Was There, And, In The Flowing Of Your Dress, Undiscerning Tenderness. And When You Thought, It Seemed To Me, Infinitely, And Like A Sea, About The Slight World You Had Known Your Vast Unconsciousness Was Thrown. . . . O Haven Without Wave Or Tide! Silence, In Which All Songs Have Died! Holy Book, Where Hearts Are Still! And Home At Length Under The Hill! O Mother Quiet, Breasts Of Peace, Where Love Itself Would Faint And Cease! O Infinite Deep I Never Knew, I Would Come Back, Come Back To You, Find You, As A Pool Unstirred, Kneel Down By You, And Never A Word, Lay My Head, And Nothing Said, In Your Hands, Ungarlanded; And A Long Watch You Would Keep; And I Should Sleep, And I Should Sleep!