Love, that in silence writes upon these eyes
The script of that sweet music her eyes bear,
Whose light was born not, changes not, nor dies,
But makes the living dumb, the dead aware,
Pronouncing great philosophies unwise,
Her truth being breathed upon the impassioned air
So secretly, that thought, remembering, cries:
‘Tell me, my God, was she not always there?’
Love that in silence writes makes youth and age
Divide her light, light that is swift and slow,
The living light and light from the dead page
That sees her newly, and says long ago:
‘In her all myths have found their period,
Being herself the handiwork of God.’


Vernon Watkins