Thy spirit in the dusking leaf,
And in the midmost heart of grief
Thy passion clasps a secret joy."
With which compare these lines in The Gardener's Daughter:
"Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells,—
Of that which came between, more sweet than each,
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves
That tremble round a nightingale—in sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplexed for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow."