Long since in the far-away springs,

 Come back for a night of

 New being as good as their old,

 Aye, better in fact,

 For somehow he gilds their fine gold,—

 Gives the one thing they lacked,

 The breath, aspiration, desire,

 Core, kindle, control,

 Memory and rapture and fire,—

 The touch of man’s soul.

 How know the true master? I know

 By my joys and my fears,

 For my heart crumbles down like the snow

 With spring rain into tears.

64

 Now I am a precious one!

 With nothing to do

 But idle here in the sun

 And gossip with you

 Of a stranger you have not seen,

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