The white winter sun struck its stroke on the bridge,
The meadow-rills rippled and gleamed
As I left the thatched post-office, just by the ridge,
And dropped in my pocket her long tender letter,
With: " This must be snapped! it is more than it seemed;
And now is the opportune time!"

But against what I willed worked the surging sublime
Of the thing that I did — the thing better!