But into one a thousand times more bright;
And let no man believe he truly loves,
Who lives, or moves, or thinks, or hath his being
In any other atmosphere than Love’s,
Who is our absolute master; to recount
The endless bead-roll of whose smiles and tears
I’d have each sleepless night a century,
Much have I said—have much more yet to say!
But read her letter, Arias, the first seal
Of my success, the final one, I think,