POEMS BY ISAAC ROSENBERG
Love's euphony,
In Love's own temple that is our glad hearts,
Makes now long music wild deliciously;
Now Grief hath used his darts.
Love infinite,
Chastened by sorrow, hallowed by pure flame—
Not all the surging world can compass it.
Love—Love—O tremulous name!
God's mercy shines;
And my full heart hath made record of this,
Of grief that burst from out its dark confines
Into strange sunlit bliss.
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