Sweet empty sky of June without a stain, Faint, gray-blue dewy mists on far-off hills, Warm, yellow sunlight flooding mead and plain, That each dark copse and hollow overfills;...
What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine, Thou cold, white, silent Stranger? From my hand Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine; Here eyes that flamed with love, at thy command...