Beloved, My Beloved

Beloved, my Beloved, when I thinkThat thou wast in the world a year ago,What time I sate alone here in the snowAnd saw no footprint, heard the silence sinkNo moment at thy voice, . . but link by linkWent counting all my chains as if that soThey never could fall off at any blowStruck by thy possible hand . . . . why, thus I drinkOf life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful,Never to feel thee thrill the day or nightWith personal act or speech,—nor ever cullSome prescience of thee with the blossoms whiteThou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.