Our love has grown a thing too deep and grave
For touch and speech of trivial gallantries:
For we have wrought consummate sorceries
From which no lifted sign nor prayer may save:
To seize the perilous hour we have been brave;
And passion, past all fleshly ecstasies,
Has flung us into stilled eternities
Where the moment hung like some unfalling wave.
Yet, though our love outsoar the exalted clay
To stand in firmamental station fixed,
We find, with some enchanted memory mixed,
The laughters heard in Swift and Rabelais;
And, blended with the rapture and the woe,
Are drolleries of blithe Boccaccio.