Not here; for this that fires our northland night,
This is the song that made
Love fearful, even the heart of love afraid,
With the great anguish of its great delight.
No swan-song, no far-fluttering half-drawn breath,
No word that love of love's sweet nature saith,
No dirge that lulls the narrowing lids of death,
No healing hymn of peace-prevented strife,--
This is her song of life.

_I loved thee_,--hark, one tenderer note than all--
_Atthis, of old time, once_--one low long fall,
Sighing--one long low lovely loveless call,
Dying--one pause in song so flamelike fast--
_Atthis, long since in old time overpast_--
One soft first pause and last.
One,--then the old rage of rapture's fieriest rain
Storms all the music-maddened night again.

_Child of God, close craftswoman, I beseech thee,
Bid not ache nor agony break nor master,
Lady, my spirit_--
O thou her mistress, might her cry not reach thee?
Our Lady of all men's loves, could Love go past her,
Pass, and not hear it?

She hears not as she heard not; hears not me,
O treble-natured mystery,--how should she
Hear, or give ear?--who heard and heard not thee;