Stood in the trees, and where an oaken gate
Swung in the air, so turbulent of late.
I touch'd thy hand; it quiver'd into mine;
And then I look'd into thy face benign,
And saw the smile for which the angels wait.
VIII.
And lo! the moon had sailed into the main
Of that blue sky, as if therein did poise
A silver boat; and then a tuneful noise
Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain;