If, till we met, no Maker had existed,
If life was finite and man but a clod,
This flaming love of ours has so persisted
Its very glory would have made a God.
It was too vast for love of man and woman,
Too high for earth, too might for the tomb;
It grew up over and beyond ways human,
And sought a garden of perpetual bloom.

Long, long ago, we sensed that garden's beauty,
And talked together of its pure delight.
How is it now you feel no urge of duty,
To help my straining vision gain its sight?
How is it that, although I gaze and hark,
I find but deathly silence--and the dark?

Sonnets of sorrow and triumph. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
New York: George H. Doran, 1918.

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