Because thou hast no dreams of my distress
Shall I cry out to mar thy soft delight?
Nay! though the wrathful gods forget me quite
I shall not chide thee nor account thee less.

For though these paths my wounded feet must press
Continually, I know they clearer sight
Had found (O! thick the risen mists and white!)
The hollow land beyond the wilderness.

And thou…I think that now thy garments sweep
Across its grasses and young daffodils;
Its water-ways are thine; its low winds creep
Through thy gold hair; and where the last light thrills
(Thy sentinels—if, haply, thou shouldst sleep)
Lean over thee its purple-shadowed hills.