Dear love, if you and I had perfect love,
No doubt we could not face the imperfect earth.
We have a little struggling deathless love,
Struggling up through the writhing imperfect earth.
We who would make of every breath a song,
We who would make of every vista peace,
Struggle up like rooted growing things—
Like pines at the mountain-top in stony earth,
Struggling up through the writhing imperfect earth.
Yet now, dear love, we proudly remake our vows,
Naked like gods beneath the noon or the moon.
Yet now we bend with love-flowers on our brows—
Renew them soon, if they chance to wither soon.
Yet, my darling, darling, though we wound,
Misunderstand, and struggle for our peace,
Still kisses, dearest kisses, give release;
And the sod blooms with a flower of deathless worth,
And secret heavenly mirth—
The flower of faith,
The angel flower of faith—
That strange scrap of snow,
That magical sweet wraith,
Struggling up through the writhing imperfect earth.