He, at parting:

Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.— When the House of Day uncloses Portals that the stars adorn,— Whence Light's golden presence throws his Fiery lilies, burning roses On the world,—how good to ride With one's sweetheart at one's side!

So to-morrow we will ride To the wood's cathedral places; Where the prayer-like wildflowers hide, Sweet religion in their faces; Where, in truest, untaught phrases, Worship in each rhythmic word, God is praised by many a bird.

Look above you.—Pearly white, Star on star now crystallizes Out of darkness; and the night Hangs them round her like devices Of strange jewels. Vapour rises, Glimmering, from each wood and dell— Till to-morrow, then, farewell.