XXIV

I am all gladness like a little child! Grief's tragic figure of the veiled face Fades from my path, moving with measured pace Back from the splendour that breaks on the wild, High hills of sorrow, where the storm-clouds piled In drift of tears. Lo! with what tender grace Joy holds the world again in her embrace Since you came forth, and looked on me, and smiled.

Down in the valley shines a scimiter— A stream with autumn-gold deep damascened; And of the bards of day one loiterer Still lingers at his song, securely screened By foliage. Dear, what miracle is this, Transforming void and chaos with a kiss!