O, how the light drifts from the hemlock br grove, br How in the night disarmed Desires do rove ! br A sister to the dumb hydrangea thou, br A mystery born of the Then and Now. br The color on thy clouded face — ah me ! br Is't from the embers that still burn in thee? br Has not the forge of suffering robbed thee of br The flame with which weak mortals feed their br love? br Wilt thou, no longer fancying the light. br Conjure a virgin flame from darkest night? br And feed it with the salvias of a soul. br That would, but yet— alas ! she seeks the Whole. br The hand that broke the screen, the heart that br lied,— br Where are they? Come, the path of truth is br wide.