Tongue hath not told it,
Heart hath not known;
Yet shall the bough swing
When it hath flown.
Dreams have denied it,
Fools forsworn:
Yet it hath comforted
Each man born.
Once and again it is
Blown to me,
Sweet from the wild thyme,
Salt from the sea;
Blown thro' the ferns
Faint from the sky;
Shadowed in water,
Yet clear as a cry.
Light on a face,
Or touch of a hand,
Making my still heart
Understand.
Earth hath not seen it.
Nor heaven above,
Yet shall the wild bough
Bend with the Dove.
Yea, tho' the bloom fall
Under Thy feet,
_Veni, Creator,
Paraclete!_