Love's Conqueror

Behold, O Love! thy conquest is complete;
Through every sense thy subtle forces stole,
Until they won possession of the soul.
Where all is sad and branded by defeat.
Lo! Peace lies slain, and Hope, with weary feet,
Returns to me, not having gained the goal.
Here, all the spring is bloomless, and the whole
Deep music of the sea no longer sweet.

But only, Love, be glad a little space.
For one, far mightier than thou, shall come
Who makes the piteous mouth of sorrow dumb.
Lo! he shall cast thee down from thy high place;
No warder when He comes may keep the gate:
Till then, rejoice: for me, behold I wait.