One morn we strolled on our dry walk, / Our quiet home all full in view, / And held such intermitted talk / As we are wont to do.
On the beach at night, / Stands a child with her father, / Watching the east, the autumn sky.
… / How can he be? The words are wild.
…Who shall say I am not / the happy genius of my household?
…I recall his hands, / two measures of tenderness / he laid against my face, / the flames of discipline / he raised above my head.
They almost devour me with kisses, / Their arms about me entwine, / Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen / In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!