Love Has Shining Eyes

I HAD read, and had been told
By the bitter young and the brave scarred old
‘ Love is a great and terrible thing.
A thorn-crown and a struggling.
Love is keen and cruel and deep.
Love will make you weep.’

I loved you, and I knew your road
Was mine, however strange it showed.

Yet I thought, ‘I go to a wound,
A cross, a battle.’ . . . This I found:
That April sun on a brown hill-slope,
And the sea-wind’s challenging and quest,
And a child’s eyes, and a dream’s hope,
And after the day’s work, long, long, rest;
And a flame of wonder, far and sure,
And a singing quietness — all these
Are less than the least you make secure
Of Life’s bright longings and mysteries.

I shall say, ‘They lied! They lied!
Look! Am I tortured and crucified?
Love is a great proud glistening thing,
A trumpet-cry and a triumphing.
And Love is quiet and close and wise.
Love has shining eyes.’

Has their sorrow more right to cry
What Love is than I? — than I?