Chapter IX

The youthful spring with wondrous might
Bursts out in all its clarity
Upon our wistful words and sight,
And bathes them deep in purity.
The wind and the slender lips of the flowers,
Trembling, scatter abroad in showers
Their syllables of light.

But the soul of us will not be caught
Within the chains that language wrought;
One simple flight of spirit doth enshrine,
Better than word or fitful thought,
Our joy in its abiding place divine,--
That heaven of thine wherein thy soul
Kneels gently down to mine,
And that where wistfully my soul
Kneels humbly there to thine.