<h2>XXXI</h2>
<p>Thou comest! all is said without a word.<br/>
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do<br/>
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through<br/>
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred<br/>
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred<br/>
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue<br/>
The sin most, but the occasion—that we two<br/>
Should for a moment stand unministered<br/>
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,<br/>
Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,<br/>
With thy broad heart serenely interpose:<br/>
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies<br/>
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,<br/>
Like callow birds left desert to the skies.</p>
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