* * * * *

It was in my hands--I tore it apart,
This letter that Harry had writ to me;
My head turn'd giddy, and so did my heart,
And turn'd my eyes blind that I could not see.

O wicked blind eyes, will you _not_ be clear?
Have I not _told_ you 'tis written by him?
'Tis a piece of Heaven I am holding here,
And my horrible earthly eyes are dim!

The cruel letters run out and run in,
Fluttering, tottering, stammering by,
Mixing together like threads that you spin,
Flying apart, as birds recklessly fly.

Is it for years that I helplessly stand,
While tremulous lights into shadows flit,
With a piece of Heaven held in my hand,
Which is mine--and I cannot enter it!

At last--O my wonderful dear at last!
Thou always comest, howe'er it is--
The senseless signs into symmetry pass'd,
For a few short seconds it _must_ be bliss!

And so standing there in the twilight's fall
(What happen'd is nothing but what must be)
I read the first words that ever at all