Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice, . . . but link by link
Went counting all my chains as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand . . . why, thus I drink
Of life's great cup of wonder.  Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,--nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing!  Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.