And now he is all mine, for my caress
And my strong bow,—an Ariel, as it seems,—
A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams;
A prison'd wizard that has come to bless
And will not curse, though tortured, more or less,
By some remembrance that athwart him streams.
XVII.
It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie
That made us one; for then the earth was fair
With all things on't, and summer in the air