Very gently smiled the angel,
Dark-browed, with the look celestial:
"I am Love,—thyself hast named me;
Yet thou fearest! Lo! I leave thee
Till as now thou come to find me."
Once again the man, at sunrise,
Journeyed forth,—his step less buoyant,—
Passing over fields new-wakened,
Where the dew lay on the blossoms
Like to softly gleaming opals.
Once again Earth, fresh from slumber,
In the early light and tender
Wore her green and mystic beauty;
Yet his heart sang not within him
As the birds sang in the branches.
Onward still, without impatience,
Through a world whose charm half pained him,
And the long-forgotten angel—
Dark-browed, with the look celestial!
As of old, the pilgrim started,
And his pale cheek flushed with anger: