Is it a breath of starlight from above?
Or flash of wind that hints of that thing—love?
Words fail me, I cannot sing or write;
Am I in some worn depth or brand new height?
Day passes, unhearing of my voice;
Does night sorrow, or do all shades rejoice?
My foreign feelings question my faint sight;
Is light afar real flame, or merely light?
Come now, be not dumb on trails of sense;
Your present writing shows a glow intense,
And you already are as gold cup of the day
That waits the sun’s first finger-pointing ray.
