He waits musing.

Herein the dearness of her is: The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in beauty and in bliss Were not more white to have to kiss, To love not more in tune.

And oft I think she is too true, Too innocent for our day; For in her eyes her soul looks new— Two crowfoot-blossoms watchet-blue Are not more soft than they.

So good, so kind is she to me, In darling ways and happy words, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Too much with God and secretly Sweet sister to the birds.