Should change fall in its fated hour;
Should music cease, should darkness be;
Should star and sun and face and flower
Turn dust of beauty endlessly,
Beloved, what of you and me?

I question how, by finer sense,
The soul adventures ways unknown,
Or what shall be its recompense
For death? what loveliness atone
For earth's green glory sadly flown?

Yet, since I need nor touch, nor sight,
Nor spoken word, however dear,
To read your thought and will aright,
To know your spirit, now and here,
What has our fellowship to fear?

Man's age-long doubt assails in vain
The truth that lightens in your eyes,
Or your still courage, bred of pain:
Beyond the wreck of worlds and skies,
I shall seek these, when beauty dies.