When, glooming back upon myself,
The garden path I pace,
He comes and makes my gladdened eyes
The dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign!
No sooner am I out,
He hovers by on golden wings
To chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh,
Winnow the blissful grain
Of immortality, and sift
From mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows;
Ever his gladsome morn
Shines down the blackness of my grief
With glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height,
Now o’er the garden wall;
From far-off places, or where first
The wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowers
Beneath her window-sill,
Her chamber-window, where he warms
Homeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roof
He to my awful eye
His radiant message angels me
From azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heart
Feel God’s fair world a blank.
Straight for the sunny thought of her
His yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want,
Weep like a thwarted boy,
Cry outright, but with darting gold
He chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracle
Ever renewed, the fear,
I lose in charmed tranquillity,
For she, my saint, is here.