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 Dove-Like 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.