He, with conviction.

As to that, nothing to tell, You being all my belief; Doubt may not enter or dwell Here where your image is chief; Here where your name is a spell, Potent in joy and in grief.

Is it the glamor of spring Working in us so we seem Aye to have loved? that we cling Even to some fancy or dream, Rainbowing everything Here in our souls with its gleam?

See! how the synod is met There of the heavens to preach us— Freed from the earth's oubliette, See how the blossoms beseech us— Were it not well to forget Winter and night as they teach us?

Dew and a bud and a star, These,—like a beautiful thought, Over man's wisdom how far!— God for some purpose has wrought; And though they're that which they are, What are the thoughts they have brought?

Stars and the moon; and they roll Over our way that is white. Here shall we end the long stroll? Here shall I kiss you good-night? Or, for a while, soul to soul, Linger and dream of delight?