XIII

Ah, dearest, dearest, not alone I face the day's white monotone. The fair, bright ribbon of the hours— A mountain brook bestead through flowers— Runs, a dear line, from you to you. There is no smallest deed I do Through which the ribbon does not run, A silver string to pearls of sun. So glad I watch the moments fly Across the high-hung summer sky, Till in a radiant flame they burn, To mark the hour of your return.