He Comes To Me Like Air On Parching Grass; His Eyes Are Wells Where Truth Lives, Found At Last; Summer Is Fragrant Should He This Way Pass; His Calm Love Is A Chain That Binds Me Fast.... Yet Often Melancholy Will Forecast That Time When I Shall Have Grown Old - When He - Still Rapturous In His Struggle With Life'S Blast - Shall Give A Pitying Side Glance To Me, Who Skirt The Fog-Fringe Of Eternity, Straining Mine Eyes To Catch What Shadowy Sign Of Good Or Evil Omen There May Be, Yet No Sure Good Nor Evil Can Divine: Only Some Hints Of Doubtful Sound And Light, That Lonelier Leave The Uncompanioned Night.