O weary watcher waiting at the well!
She cannot come to fill thy aching brain
With thoughts as sweet as nectar in a cell,
Or bright as flowers in a dreamy dell;
Her individual force is spent; in vain
Thou yearnest for the touch that eases pain;
No longer can she weave her mystic spell.
For she is now a part of all around,
A spirit and an essence, a desire,
An inspiration in the heart of things,
That murmurs in the harmony of sound,
Is white in lilies, red in flaming fire,
And everlasting in recurring springs.