And sweeter far to suffer is it, dear one, being sometimes absent,

Than (if indeed ’twere possible) to feel the opposite pain

Of too much nearness, and love dying so

Down to mere slackness.

* * * * *

Now, as it is, the harp is firmly strung;

A tender tension animates the strings;

And every thought of Thee, and all the winds which blow along the world,

Wake a sweet áccord underneath the din,

And harmonize life’s wilderness for me.