You part, for months, again. Yet in that brief,
Oasis hour of her desert life,
She has quaffed eagerly the enchanted spring,
The sun-lit wave of thought in your rich mind;
And passes on her weary pilgrimage
Refreshed, and with a renovated strength.
And this has been for years. She was a child—
A school-girl—when the echo of your lyre
First came to her, with music on its wings,
And her soul drank from it the life of life.