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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415696" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Adelaide Ironside</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Knowest thou now, O Love! Oh pure from the death of thy summer of sweetness!<br>Seest thou now, O new-born Delight of the Ransomed and Free!<br>We have gathered the flower for the fruit; we have hastened the hour of thy meetness;<br>For thou wert sealed unto us, and thine Angel hath waited for thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not in disdain, O Love! O Sweet! of desires that are earthly and mortal,<br>Not in the scorn of thine Art, whose beginning and end is Divine,<br>So soon have we borne thee asleep through the glow of the uttermost portal,<br>But in the ruth of high souls that have travelled with longings like thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing is lost, O Love! O mine! and thy seemingly broken endeavour<br>Here re-appeareth, transfigured as thou; yet the Art of thy youth;<br>And the light of the Spirit of Beauty is on it for ever and ever;<br>For Art is the garment of Praise, and the broidered apparel of Truth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seest thou now, O Love! how Art, in a way to mortality nameless,<br>Liveth again, soul-informed, love-sustained, self-completing, for aye?<br>How thy heart's purpose was good, and the dream of thy maidenhood blameless,—<br>How thy fair dawn is fulfilled in the light of ineffable day?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seest thou now, O Love! O Fair! how the high spiritlife is Art regnant—<br>Art become bliss, and harmonious response to the Infinite Will?<br>Fused and transfused into Love, with the germs of eternity pregnant—<br>Crowned as the law of the beauty of Holiness; throned, yet Art still?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not then in vain, O Love! thy dawn, nor the dream of thy holy ambition;<br>Never a trace of thy finger hath witnessed for Beauty in vain;<br>In the bloom of the noon of thine ardour thy soul became fair for fruition;<br>We have smitten the green into gold but to spare thee the harvest of pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing that came from thy hand, O Love, made void, cut off, evanescent,—<br>From the infantile essay that strove with the weapon of outline alone,<br>To the Angels thou lovedst to portray with luminous plumes iridescent,<br>Till thy soul drew so near unto us that we took thee for one of our own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now may'st thou trace, O Heart! Sweet Heart! from on high all the way I have led<br>thee,<br>From the youth of a world in the Seas of the South to unperishing Rome;<br>For the lure of thy following soul was the sheen of my wings that o'erspread thee,<br>Flushing with reflex of glory the path of thy pilgrimage—home.<br> <br>By the way of the age of the world I have chosen to lead thee to glory;<br>Of the wine of the might of the world have I given thee to drink ere thou slept;<br>Where the Masters have walked I have laid thee, ensphered with the darlings of<br>story;<br>I have waked thee a perfected spirit; matured, yet thine innocence kept.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There, too, I led thee to feed thee with prescience and keen imitation<br>Of the art-adjuvant Grace that hath given thee, a love-gift, to me;<br>By the work of my hands did I wake in thee foretaste of Transfiguration,—<br>For thine Angel once wrought upon earth as thou; and his work thou didst see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now is thy spirit, O Love, in mine. In thy heart I behold thou dost know me.<br>I looked for thy glad recognition; no converse of aliens is this;<br>Oft when thy longings went upward, thy soul, like a mirror below me,<br>Caught my own loveliest visions in shapes of Elysian bliss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Name me not now, O Love! O mine! for the name of my days of wayfaring<br>Still hath the note of a fevered desire, and an echo of pain.<br>Come thou, O Gift of long hope, to the home of thine Angel's preparing!<br>There I shall show thee the mercy of God, and the things that remain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Brunton+Stephens">James Brunton Stephens</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415696" data-title="Adelaide Ironside de James Brunton Stephens" data-description="Knowest thou now, O Love! Oh pure from the death of thy summer of sweetness!
Seest thou now, O new-born Delight of the Ransomed and Free!
We have gathered the flower for the fruit; we have hastened the hour of thy meetness;
For thou wert sealed un..."></div>
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