XXII.

"But, O my babe, thy lids are laid Close, fast upon thy cheek, And not a dream of power and sheen Can make a passage up between; Thy heart is of thy mother's made, Thy looks are very meek, And it will be their chosen place To rest on some beloved face, As these on thine, and let the noise Of the whole world go on nor drown The tender silence of thy joys: Or when that silence shall have grown Too tender for itself, the same Yearning for sound,--to look above And utter its one meaning, LOVE, That _He_ may hear His name."