XXI

Say over again, and yet once over again,

That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem a cuckoo-song, as thou dost treat it,

Remember, never to the hill or plain,

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubts pain

Cry, Speak once more--thou lovest ! Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ?

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