Wherewith thou smiling crown’dst the fading hours,
Weaving fine fancies 'mid the murmuring blithe
Of lowland stream, and birds, and pattering leaves;
Long have I called thee, waiting for thy voice,
So faint it rose above the troublous noise
Of earthly harvesters among their sheaves;
Long have I waited thy dear heart to win,
So long desired to reign with thee therein.”
VI.
O sorrow-stricken Voice, so piercing sweet!