His old familiar flame:

From copse and meadow came—

But I was not the same.

Uncaring how or why:

What better than to die?

I drink of life, to-day,

Of fountain by the way:

I heard a clear voice singing

My happy tears came springing:

[Pg 39]

“A rosy child,

The joy of hearing, seeing,

The simple joy of being—

That ripples free and wild.

“A sweet pale child—

Waiting the great For-ever

That suddenly shall sever

By earth-joys unbeguiled.

“An angel-child—

The mortal form forsaken,

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