So
be it: there no shade can last
In that deep dawn behind the tomb,
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom
The
eternal landscape of the past;
A
lifelong tract of time reveal’d;
The fruitful hours of still increase;
Days order’d in a wealthy peace,
And
those five years its richest field.
O
Love, thy province were not large,
A bounded field, nor stretching far;
Look also, Love, a brooding star,
A
rosy warmth from marge to marge.