For a Picture by Rose Cecil O’Neil
Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,
Kisses and words-the sweet small prophecies
That run before the Lord of Love: the fain
Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,
All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door
Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this–
The end of all small speech of word or kiss,
And whose strange name is Love-and one name more.
One is this twain past power of speech to tell,
Each lost in each, and each for ever found;
Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;
Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned
In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,
And it is well with them-yea! it is well.
