I fled Him down the nights and down the days;
I fled him down the arches of the years....
Now that voice is round me
like a bursting sea:
"All which your child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for you at home.
Rise, clasp my hand,
Love, whom we sometimes call "God," doesn't just look for us like lost sheep or coins or wait for us to come back home. Like Francis Thomson's bloodhound, Love searches us out and catches us up with sunrises like this morning's Beauty.