This is truth in its pure grace;)
The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.
Day by day, with new desire,
Toward my wood I ran in faith—
Under leaf and over brier—
Through the thickets, out of breath—
Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.
But his sword of mettle clashèd,
And his arm smote strong, I ween;
And her dreaming spirit flashèd