fire of beauty

 

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Unto the deep the deep heart goes,
It lays its sadness nigh the breast:
Only the Mighty Mother knows
The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

It seeks a deeper silence still;

It folds itself around with peace,

Where thoughts alike of good or ill

In quietness unfostered cease.

It feels in the unwounding vast

For comfort for its hopes and fears:

The Mighty Mother bows at last;

She listens to her children's tears.

Where the last anguish deepens -- there

The fire of beauty smites through pain:

A glory moves amid despair,

The Mother takes her child again. 

—A. E. (George William Russell)

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