* * *

Over the Georgian hills the night her mantle throws;
Softly the river sings to me.
And gently too my sorrow wraps me, but it glows
Always, for it is full of thee.
Of thee, only of thee. . . . O my sorrow’s a veil
That guards me from the world’s loud voice.
While my heart loves and burns anew: how can it fail
To love and burn? It has no choice.