His hand at last! By his own fingers writ,
  I catch my name upon the wayworn sheet:
His hand—oh, reach it to me quick! And yet,
  Scarce can I hold, so fast my pulses beat.

O feast of soul! O banquet richly spread!
  O passion-lettered scroll from o’er the sea!
Like a fresh burst of life to one long dead,
  Joy, strength, and bright...