III

And with the evening cloud,

Showering thy gleaned 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-attain'd 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 deem'd no mist of earth could dull

Those spirit-thrilling 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.