O YOU who must not hear the diapason Of my heart's deep music shall grow old Not knowing how my hasty feet would run To greet your coming, dear. Yet I shall hold Your loveliness in ways you do not dream, Since I who hunger for you so shall find A bit of you in every silver stream That cools my thirst, and where the long trails wind Down through the forest I shall surely see The shadow of your footsteps where the blue Spring violets have budded. Rock and tree And sea and sky will be a part of you, And I prostrate to nature's pagan god, Shall seek to find your lips in earthly sod. |