I, like a wandering bubble,
Am blown here and there
Shifting and changing and fashioned
Of water and air.

Thou turnest thy face, O Beloved,
I cannot tell why,
Art thou shy of a mirror, Beloved?
Thy mirror am I!

When over her face she unloosened
The dusk of her hair,
What need had the world of the cloud-wreaths,
They fled in despair.