Ii

She came unto him--as the springtime does Unto the land where all lies dead and cold, Until her rosary of days is told And beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.-- Nature divined her coming; yea, the dusk Seemed thinking of that happiness: behold, No cloud it had to blot its marigold Moon--great and golden--o'er the slopes of musk; Whereon earth's voice made music; tree and stream Lilting the same low lullaby again, To coax the wind, who romped among the hills All day--a tired child--to sleep and dream: When through the moonlight of the locust-lane She came, as spring comes through her daffodils.