AT LAST 
 
O tearless sorrow of long years, depart ! 
O joy of minutes that be ages long, 
Come !  Let the choral pulse and strength of song 
Quicken, and the fire of lute and lyre dart, 
An arrow red with blood and bright with art, 
And cover all the fiery bloom of wrong 
With blossoms blacker where the blood runs strong 
As our lips pale, their life fled to the heart. 
 
Surely we are as dead, we loving so, 
So bitterly, so keenly :  let no breath 
Persuade us we are living and must die ! 
Better believe eternal kisses flow 
Under the strong rude current miscalled death, 
The lotus-river where our bodies lie ! 
 
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