Of all my fears—e'en he, when all is done,
Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none
To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day.
VII.
For he is human, though, to look at him,
To see his shape, to hear,—as from the throat
Of some bright angel,—his ecstatic note,
A sinful soul might dream of cherubim.
Aye! and he watches when my senses swim,
And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float.