Voice that art life to me, I almost hear
Thy sweet familiar cadence on the breeze,
At times a far call infinitely clear;
Face that art love to me, my spirit sees
In each unfolding bud of the young year
Imperfect shadows of thy grace appear,
For thou, dear one, art fairer than all these;

Soul that art part of me, at last I know
What murmurs on the wakening breezes blow,
What hand of ivory pours out the wine
Filling the cup of spring to overflow;
All beauty mirrors what is only thine,
And thou the source not mortal, but divine.