Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.
The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
“Which world, of all yon starry myriad,
Shall we make wing to?” The still solitude ...
Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say,
Though late it be, though lily-time be past,
Though all the summer skies be overcast,
Haply I will go down to her, some day,
And cast my rests of life before her feet,
That she may have her will of me, being so sweet
And none gainsay!