Yet if I speak of him my spirit feels,
Through the thin veils of flesh, the gentle touch
Of ghostly hands put out to comfort me:
Hands that were Merow’s, tremulous with love.
Ah! shall I speak to you of that calm dawn,
When we two rode together toward Tours,
Through woods but newly wakened into life?
The spring was laughing with her April eyes,
Her fingers decked each bough with tender bloom
Of bud and blossom, and her feet awoke