What other woman could be loved like you,
Or how of you should love possess his fill?
After the fulness of all rapture, still,--
As at the end of some deep avenue
A tender glamour of day,--there comes to view
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill,--
Such fire as Love's soul-winnowing hands distil
Even from his inmost arc of light and dew.
And as the traveller triumphs with the sun,
Glorying in heat's mid-height, yet startide brings
Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs
From limpid lambent hours of day begun;--
Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul doth move
My soul with changeful light of infinite love.