Song #7.

You, too, shall know that I have prayed
Beneath the mystic tree
Whose branches at the first were made
Out of God's memory.
Beneath those boughs my soul has knelt,
And each leaf bending down
Stirred with my heart, as it had felt
A rapture like its own.
I dared not touch the holy thing,
But made my prayer a breath
Intense as is the passioning
Of lover gone to death —
Who sees the dark flood he must cross
Without his love afar,
And bears with him that bitter loss
'Where the Eternal are.'