Shall we count the reeds at our feet,
Or the fluttering, falling leaves?
Or number the golden sheaves
Of the ripening wheat?
Reckon the gathered flowers-
And the moments, all to fleet?
Enough to know them ours,
To know them sweet!
Because that a cloud may lie
Over the morrow’s sky,
Must we miss
The glory that shines from this?
This love that is mine to-day,
Will it go- will it stay?
Must I question-must I weigh?
Nay, love, for thou art blind!
With wings of the wind,
With speed of the morning fleet-
Or, fluttering to rest,
White dove to her white nest-
I know not, nor divine.
Enough to know thee sweet,
To know thee mine!
