He Who Loves
For him God's birds each merry morn Make of wild throats melodious flutes To trill such love from brush and thorn As might brim eyes of brutes: Who would believe of such a thing, That 'tis her heart which makes them sing? For him the faultless skies of noon Grow farther in eternal blue, As heavens that buoy the balanced moon, And sow the stars and dew: Who would believe that such deep skies Are miracles only through her eyes? For him mad sylphs adown domed nights Stud golden globules radiant, Or glass-green transient trails of lights Spin from their orbs and slant: Who would believe a soul were hers To make for him a universe?
