For he loves these things the purest--
Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies.
He has loved us, we will love him,
And will cheer his hour of sadness,
Spirits, wave your boughs above him
To a measure of soft gladness.
SPIRIT OF LOVE.
Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,
But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth,
And till I spell him with my magic spell,