VI

When from the rose-mist of creation grew God's patient waiting in your wide-set eyes, The morning stars, and all the host that flies On wings of love, paused at the wondrous blue With which the Master, mindful of the hue, Stained first the crystal dome of summer skies; And afterward the violet that vies With amethyst, before He fashioned you.

And I have trembled with those ancient stars; My heart has known the flame-winged seraphs' song; For no indifferent, dreamy eyelid bars Me from the blue, nor veils with lashes long Your love, that to my tender gazing grows Bold to confess it: I am glad he knows!