He, at parting.

Yes, to-morrow; when the morn,

Pentecost of flame, uncloses

Portals that the stars adorn,

Whence a golden presence throws his

Fiery swords and burning roses

At the wide wood's world of wall,

Spears of sparkle at each fall;

Then together let us ride

Down deep-wood cathedral places,

Where the pilgrim wild-flowers hide,

Praying Sabbath in their faces;

Where in truest untaught phrases,

Worship in each rhythmic word,

Sings no migratory bird....

Pearl on pearl the high stars dight

Jewels of divine devices

‘ Round the Afric throat of Night;

Where yon misty glimmer rises

Soon the white moon crystallizes

Out of darkness, like a spell.—

Late,‘ t is late. Till dawn, farewell.