Like some fleet-footed creature, pard or roe,
That seeks its joy and flieth from its fear,
To meet the act, the smile, the accent dear,
I would have leaped, now in my swiftness slow.
Yet why indulge regret, the while I see
In eyes of this glad angel, without cease,
My calm repose and everlasting peace?
More painful days, perchance, had dawned on me,
If I had earlier met, yet been denied
The wings she lendeth me to fly beside.