Is cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn,
Ascending new with all his glittering train
To bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain;
Or soft winds singing in the sacred grove
That keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love,
Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.
VIII
LOVE’S HOPE
JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun,
Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, dies