For A Picture By Rose Cecil O'Neil

Kisses are long forgotten of this twain, Kisses and words-the sweet small prophecies That run before the Lord of Love: the fain Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes, All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this- The end of all small speech of word or kiss, And whose strange name is Love-and one name more. One is this twain past power of speech to tell, Each lost in each, and each for ever found; Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell; Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round, And it is well with them-yea! it is well.