He, at parting:

Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.—

When the House of Day uncloses

Portals that the stars adorn,—

Whence Light's golden presence throws his

Fiery lilies, burning roses

On the world,— how good to ride

With one's sweetheart at one's side!

So to-morrow we will ride

To the wood's cathedral places;

Where the prayer-like wildflowers hide,

Sweet religion in their faces;

Where, in truest, untaught phrases,

Worship in each rhythmic word,

God is praised by many a bird.

Look above you.— Pearly white,

Star on star now crystallizes

Out of darkness; and the night

Hangs them round her like devices

Of strange jewels. Vapour rises,

Glimmering, from each wood and dell —

Till to-morrow, then, farewell.