The poem
THE MIGHT that shaped itself through storm and stress In chaos, here is lulled in breathing sweet; Under the long brown ridge in gentleness Its fierce old pulses beat.
Quiet and sad we go at eve; the fire That woke exultant in an earlier day Is dead; the memories of old desire Only in shadows play.
We liken love to this and that; our thought The echo of a deeper being seems: We kiss, because God once for beauty sought Within a world of dreams.