III

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,

And with the evening cloud,

Showering thy gleanéd wealth into my open breast,

(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind

Never grow sere,

When rooted in the garden of the mind,

Because they are the earliest of the year).

Nor was the night thy shroud.

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope,

The eddying of her garments caught from thee

The light of thy great presence; and the cope

Of the half attained futurity,

Though deep not fathomless,

Was cloven with the million stars which tremble

O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy.

Small thought was there of life's distress,

For sure she deemed no mist of earth could dull

Those spiritthrilling eyes so keen and beautiful:

Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres,

Listening the lordly music flowing from

The illimitable years.

Oh strengthen me, enlighten me!

I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory.