Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,
Kisses and words-the sweet small prophecies
That run before the Lord of Love: the fain
Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,
All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door
Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this-
The end of all small speech of word or kiss,
And whose strange name is Love-and one name more.

One is this twain past power of speech to tell,
Each lost in each, and each for ever found;
Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;
Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned
In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,
And it is well with them-yea! it is well.