Haven.

Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, in swarms outrushing from the golden comb. they waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:


... you throb in me, the dead revive. yon mantle clothes us:


... there, past mortal breath, life glistens on the river of death. it folds us, flesh and dust;


... and have we knelt, or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs of radiance, the radiance enrings:


... and this is the soul's haven to have felt.

- George Meredith