Thou smilest that my childhood's dreaming thought
So blent thee with the beauty of God's world
That those deep morning lilies dew-impearled,
And jonquils clear with vernal wildness fraught
(In the old lost garden where thy hand had wrought),
And dove-plumes of an evening cloud soft curled,
And star-sheen to the bland night wind unfurled,
Some touch of thy fair tenderness had caught.
Later the world of all things excellent,
As once of lovely, moved round thee; and still
Whene'er I hear the praise of Truth, Good-Will,
High Hope, and Courage by no tempest bent,
I can but think these names for thee were meant,
And thou art Love, else hath my heart no skill !