He comes to me like air on parching grass;
His eyes are wells where truth lives, found at last;
Summer is fragrant should he this way pass;
His calm love is a chain that binds me fast....
Yet often melancholy will forecast
That time when I shall have grown old—when he—
Still rapturous in his struggle with life's blast—
Shall give a pitying side glance to me,
Who skirt the fog-fringe of eternity,
Straining mine eyes to catch what shadowy sign
Of good or evil omen there may be,
Yet no sure good nor evil can divine:
Only some hints of doubtful sound and light,
That lonelier leave the uncompanioned night.