The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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May 19
OVER ALL TIME |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
169
May 19 OVER ALL TIME
“He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is Love.”—
i St. John iv. 8.
There is no bound to Love; the little touch
Of this breaks iron doors and brazen bars;
And O for such
One moment here, and then beyond the stars!
It hath no root in earthly rest or space,
Heedeth no clime,
And sends the morning of its sunny face
Over all time.
Of this breaks iron doors and brazen bars;
And O for such
One moment here, and then beyond the stars!
It hath no root in earthly rest or space,
Heedeth no clime,
And sends the morning of its sunny face
Over all time.
There is no peace with Love; its little toil
Endures, while last immortal hopes to win;
It gathers spoil
Of stony natures, which have gems within;
The sterile bosom, though so blind to all,
An empty cup,
Opens wide windows to its gracious call
And blossoms up.
Endures, while last immortal hopes to win;
It gathers spoil
Of stony natures, which have gems within;
The sterile bosom, though so blind to all,
An empty cup,
Opens wide windows to its gracious call
And blossoms up.
There is no death for Love; its little ways,
Like crimson threads, run through our deserts drear;
Sometimes it prays,
And sometimes drops in dust a fruitful tear;
None may oppose a waft of its white hands,
That bring heart's ease
Our children's children, and for unborn lands
And unmapt seas.
Like crimson threads, run through our deserts drear;
Sometimes it prays,
And sometimes drops in dust a fruitful tear;
None may oppose a waft of its white hands,
That bring heart's ease
Our children's children, and for unborn lands
And unmapt seas.
The Prisoner of Love | ||