In all our love I find no touch of guilt:
A sense of mornings delicate and pure
Lingers therein, and mornings that endure.
Yet have their tears, like dew some rose hath spilt.
Bat night hath lesser mystery, nor wilt
Thou find, O Music, evermore its lure,
Altho' thou roam the palace insecure
By sunset on the western ocean built!

Not of ourselves is love so made supreme,
And fostered with extremities of bliss.
For suns and seas upon its service wait;
The gods ordain the enchantment of its dream,
And past the blinding rapture of thy kiss
Abides the hunger of the lips of Fate.