Here, where God lives among the trees,
   Where birds and monks the whole day sing
His praises in a pleasant ease,
O heart, might we not find a home
   Here, after all our wandering?
These gates are closed, even on Rome.
Souls of the twilight wander here;
   Here, in the garden of that death
Which was for love’s sake, need we fear
How sharp with bitter joy might be
   Love’s lingering, last, longed-for breath,
Shut in upon eternity?

Source: Poetry May 1917

Arthur Symons

More poems by this author