VIII

Stoop with me, Dearest, to the grass
One little moment ere we pass
From out these parched and thirsty lands,
See! all these tiny blades are hands
Stretched supplicating to the sky,
And listen, Dearest, patiently,--
Dost thou not hear them move?
The myriad roots that search, and cry
As hearts do, Love,
"Feed us, or let us die!"


IX

Beloved, when far up the mountain side
We found, almost at eventide,
Our spring, how far we did fear
Lest it should dare the trackless wood
And disappear!
And lost all heart when on the crest we stood
And saw it spent in mist below!
Yet ever surer was its flow,
And, ever gathering to its own
New springs of which we had not known,
To fairer meadows
Swept exultant from the woodland shadows;