Sonnet XXXI

Thou comest ! all is said without a word.

I sit beneath thy looks, as children do

In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through

Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred

In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot rue

The sin most, but the occasion--that we two

Should for a moment stand unministered

By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,

Thou dovelike help ! and, when my fears would rise,

With thy broad heart serenely interpose:

Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies

These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,

Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

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