He, at parting.

Yes, to-morrow; when the morn, Pentecost of flame, uncloses Portals that the stars adorn, Whence a golden presence throws his Fiery swords and burning roses At the wide wood's world of wall, Spears of sparkle at each fall;

Then together let us ride Down deep-wood cathedral places, Where the pilgrim wild-flowers hide, Praying Sabbath in their faces; Where in truest untaught phrases, Worship in each rhythmic word, Sings no migratory bird....

Pearl on pearl the high stars dight Jewels of divine devices 'Round the Afric throat of Night; Where yon misty glimmer rises Soon the white moon crystallizes Out of darkness, like a spell.— Late, 't is late. Till dawn, farewell.