"Only--but this is rare-- When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze."

You may also like:

• 

  Alfred Lord Tennyson
  Poet

• 

  Christina Rossetti
  Poet

• 

  Gerard Manley Hopkins
  Poet

• 

  John Keats
  Poet

• 

  John Milton
  Poet

• 

  Robert Browning
  Poet

• 

  T. S. Eliot
  Playwright

• 

  Walter Pater
  Critic

• 

  William Wordsworth
  Poet