belov?d, my belov?d, when i think

that thou wast in the world a year ago,

what time i sat alone here in the snow

and saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

no moment at thy voice, but, link by link,

went counting all my chains as if that so

they never could fall off at any blow

struck by thy possible hand,—why, thus i drink

of life’s great cup of wonder! wonderful,

never to feel thee thrill the day or night

with personal act or speech,—nor ever cull

some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

thou sawest growing! atheists are as dull,

who cannot guess god’s presence out of sight.