Love is enough: while ye deemed him a-sleeping, <br />There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet; <br />His touch it was that would bring you to weeping, <br />When the summer was deepest and music most sweet: <br />In his footsteps ye followed the day to its dying, <br />Ye went forth by his gown-skirts the morning to meet: <br />In his place on the beaten-down orchard-grass lying, <br />Of the sweet ways ye pondered left for life's trying. <br /> <br />Ah, what was all dreaming of pleasure anear you, <br />To the time when his eyes on your wistful eyes turned, <br />And ye saw his lips move, and his head bent to hear you, <br />As new-born and glad to his kindness ye yearned? <br />Ah, what was all dreaming of anguish and sorrow, <br />To the time when the world in his torment was burned, <br />And no god your heart from its prison might borrow, <br />And no rest was left, no today, no tomorrow? <br /> <br />All wonder of pleasure, all doubt of desire, <br />All blindness, are ended, and no more ye feel <br />If your feet treat his flowers or the flames of his fire, <br />If your breast meet his balms or the edge of his steel. <br />Change is come, and past over, no more strife, no more learning: <br />Now your lips and your forehead are sealed with his seal, <br />Look backward and smile at the thorns and the burning. <br />--Sweet rest, O my soul, and no fear of returning!<br /><br />William Morris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-viii-while-ye-deemed-him-a-sleeping/
