He.

Handsels of anemones The surrendered hours Pour about the sweet Spring's knees— Crowding babies of the breeze, Her unstudied flowers.

When 't is dawn, bestowing Day Strews with coins of golden Every furlong of his way— Like a Sultan gone to pray At a Kaaba olden.

Warlock Night, when dips the dark, Opens, tire on tire, Windows of an heavenly ark, Whence the stars swarm, spark on spark, Butterflies of fire.

With the night, the day, the spring,— Godly chords of beauty,— We the instrument will string Of our lives and love shall sing Songs of truth and duty.