Sonnet.

He comes to me like air on parching grass; His eyes are wells where truth lives, found at last; Summer is fragrant should he this way pass; His calm love is a chain that binds me fast.... Yet often melancholy will forecast That time when I shall have grown old—when he— Still rapturous in his struggle with life's blast— Shall give a pitying side glance to me, Who skirt the fog-fringe of eternity, Straining mine eyes to catch what shadowy sign Of good or evil omen there may be, Yet no sure good nor evil can divine: Only some hints of doubtful sound and light, That lonelier leave the uncompanioned night.