XXIV

I am all gladness like a little child!

Grief's tragic figure of the veiled face

Fades from my path, moving with measured pace

Back from the splendour that breaks on the wild,

High hills of sorrow, where the storm-clouds piled

In drift of tears. Lo! with what tender grace

Joy holds the world again in her embrace

Since you came forth, and looked on me, and smiled.

Down in the valley shines a scimiter —

A stream with autumn-gold deep damascened;

And of the bards of day one loiterer

Still lingers at his song, securely screened

By foliage. Dear, what miracle is this,

Transforming void and chaos with a kiss!