HANDS cool and fragrant, like a garden swept
By wind from off a distant sea at night:
A voice which deeper than the hearing crept
By what it left unsung! God’s eremite,
To the high hill of questing I had come,
But, solitary, found no single light:
The seraph-sounding planets all were dumb
And Beauty misted from my eager sight.
Then, with no word, in silence full of grace,
Giving with gladness, making no demands,
I knew her near and lowly bent my face
To quench its thirsting in her quiet hands.
Now through the rain I tread the ghostly hill,
The dawn is coming, and my heart is still.