To Her Whose Name

To her whose name, With its sweet sibilant sound like sudden showers Splashing the grass and flowers, Hath set my April heart aflame; To her whose face, The flower and crown of all created things, Dearer than even Spring's, Hath been to me a sacrament of grace; Whose luminous mind, Stored with all gladness of the earth and sky, Hath lightened my sad eye And made it wise in love which erst was blind; Whose voice of pleasure, Calling to joys as a blithe wedding bell When ringers ring it well, Hath tuned my soul to its own happy measure; Whose blessed hand, With its white mystery of fingers five, Each one a soul alive, Hath taught me truths no angels understand; Whose arms within, Should she once clasp me to her very heart, God knoweth we should not part But live for aye in Heaven's own bliss divine; To her, alas, Who is so near, yet standeth still so far, Seeing the mortal bar Betwixt us ever which we cannot pass, These lines I send With my heart's tears to--night beseeching her, Of her dear love more dear, To be no less to me my sweetest soul and friend.