The Secret Splendour

Not every hour can glow a perfect gem:

Pallor of glass mingles with diamond fire—

 But there is here no lower and no higher—

O let thy love's hand gather both of them!

For strangely the Great Jeweller cons the soul,

Computing richness by the care each day

Lavished on throwing not one hour away:

Love's life is precious only if given whole.

Because a cup is earthen, trivial, bare,

Moulded of moments smirched by the world's eye

And no rapt ore of golden secrecy,

Forget not in the least life-flow of thine

That clay and gold can measure the same wine

 And love pour out perfection everywhere.

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