SHALL we count the reeds at our feet,
Or the fluttering, falling leaves?
Or number the golden sheaves
Of the ripening wheat?
Reckon the gathered flowers,
And the moments, all too fleet?
Enough to know them ours,
To know them sweet!

Because that a cloud may lie
Over the morrow's sky,
Must we miss
The glory that shines from this?

This love that is mine to-day,
Will it go, will it stay?
Must I question, must I weigh?
Nay, love, for thou art blind!
With wings of the wind,
With speed of the morning fleet,
Or, fluttering to rest,
White dove to her white nest,
I know not, nor divine.
Enough to know thee sweet,
To know thee mine!