Joined to the wondrous music of guitars,
Without you there, my blood were cold and white!
Beyond that phase of something some call death
I want to love you always, just as now—
To feel my cheek fanned by your clover breath,
And feel your hand press sometimes on my brow:
I would not turn one instant from the plough,
But follow on from starry fence to fence,
And question not the whither, whence, or how,
With you as earnest of God’s providence!