Love's Miracle

’T IS not the touch of hands, ’t is not the light
Shining from eyes that tenderly do gaze
On the beloved face, ’t is not the praise
Of spoken words or sung, that may aright
Reveal the spirit’s worship; these give sight
Of Love’s fair flower and tender leafy sprays;
But Love’s fruition must be found in ways
More subtly sought, and moods more recondite.

’T is rather in the hours when far apart
From the dear sight of her whose very thought
Hallows the soul, the hours with memories fraught,
With yearnings filled, when to the eyelids start
Unbidden tears; Love’s miracle then wrought
Touches with fire the altar of the heart.