”_I number none but happy hours._”

For we remember still

The morning-hymn we heard: “Ye shall fulfill

Your destiny and joy,

Each in the other, both in that Italian boy

And he in you, like flowers in a hill.”

She said to me one day, where a hill renewed its flowers,

“How easy it would be to live and die

If we would only see the ultimate

Oneness of life, quicken

Our hearts with it and know that they who hate

And strike become by their own blow the stricken!”...

“A stranger might be God,” the Hindus cry.

But Celia says, importunate:

“Everyone must be God and you and I.”

VIII

Almost the body leads the laggard soul; bidding it see

The beauty of surrender, the tranquillity

Of fusion with the earth. The body turns to dust

Not only by a sudden whelming thrust,

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