Strange, is it not, beloved, that even as I lay my cheek to thine,
Even as my eyes behold thine, even as we together, lip to lip, declare
through our silence adoration;
Strange, is it not, that these atoms which are thee and me
Have held this wine since first they sifted through the ether
From the great God's fingertips?

My lips, beloved, have kissed a thousand kisses,
My arms, beloved, have embraced a thousand thousand loves.
Mine eyes, beloved, have beheld seven thousand thousand
thousand beauteous things.
Yea, even as I embrace thee, I am encircled with that understanding
Which is born within me through the common usage of my clay.

And thou, beloved, art more wondrous than a new possession
offered straight from this day,
For thou art a wondrous mystery, ash of all the loves since Time---
Mould of lilies, atoms of granite walls split asunder by the
wrathing storm, whits of thistle down.
Aye, even as I embrace thee, I behold within thine eyes that peace-writ
thing which spelleth love.
Strange, is it not? But through their curtained mystery
I see fair mornings swathed of fleece-clouds trooping
through the ages, each filled of wondrous moments.
Rich, rich art thou!

Strange, is it not, beloved, this symbol? We, the chalices of His steadfast pledge,
Stand for a moment cheek to cheek, and lo! Crumble once more, letting the wine to flow
its scarlet stream across eternity; indelibly writing thee and me,

And our dusts lie waiting for the Potter's hand
To turn new chalices for newer loves.