Iii

What! Why bemoan one island in the sea, When I can range like mountains, or, the sun, Above all clouds, and, rosy from my run To God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee? Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily, Is, thou and I eternally are one; And this god-passion which no power can stun, I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.

Oh, when I see her golden hair, adrift On sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef, And know she breathes with her sublime belief, It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst lift Her saintly features, and dry them of grief, Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.