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Retrospect

In your arms was still delight,
  Quiet as a street at night;
  And thoughts of you, I do remember,
  Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,
  Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.
  Love, in you, went passing by,
  Penetrative, remote, and rare,
  Like a bird in the wide air,
  And, as the bird, it left no trace
  In the heaven of your face.
  In your stupidity I found
  The sweet hush after a sweet sound.
  All about you was the light
  That dims the greying end of night;
  Desire was the unrisen sun,
  Joy the day not yet begun,
  With tree whispering to tree,
  Without wind, quietly.
  Wisdom slept within your hair,
  And Long-Suffering was there,
  And, in the flowing of your dress,
  Undiscerning Tenderness.
  And when you thought, it seemed to me,
  Infinitely, and like a sea,
  About the slight world you had known
  Your vast unconsciousness was thrown. . . .
 
  O haven without wave or tide!
  Silence, in which all songs have died!
  Holy book, where hearts are still!
  And home at length under the hill!
  O mother quiet, breasts of peace,
  Where love itself would faint and cease!
  O infinite deep I never knew,
  I would come back, come back to you,
  Find you, as a pool unstirred,
  Kneel down by you, and never a word,
  Lay my head, and nothing said,
  In your hands, ungarlanded;
  And a long watch you would keep;
  And I should sleep, and I should sleep!

Mataiea, January 1914

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