Your destiny and joy;
Each in the other, both in that Italian boy,
And he in you, like flowers in a hill!”
... She was the nearness of imperfect God
On whom in her perfection was at work.
Lest I should shirk
My share, I asked her for His blessing and His nod—
And His breath was in her shining hair like the wind in golden-rod.
“But, Celia, Celia, tell me what to be,”
I asked, “and what to do,