SHE is not Folly—that I know.
Her steadfast eyelids tell me so
When, at the hour the lights divide,
She steals as summonsed to my side.
When, finger on the pursèd lip;
In secret, mirthful fellowship
She, heralding new framed delights,
Breathes, ‘This shall be a Night of Nights!’
Then out of Time and out of Space,
Is built an Hour and a Place
Where all an earnest, baffled Earth
Blunders and trips to make us mirth;
Where, from the trivial flux of Things,
Rise unconceived miscarryings
Outrageous but immortal, shown,
Of Her great love, to me alone. . . .
She is not Wisdom but, may be,
Wiser than all the Norms is She
And more than Wisdom I prefer
To wait on Her,—to wait on Her!