Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/361

 In woods where the spring half uncovers The flush of her amorous face, By the waters that listen for lovers, For these is there place?

For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle Their music as clouds do their fire: For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle Wild wings in a wind of desire; In the stream of the storm as it settles Blown seaward, borne far from the sun, Shaken loose on the darkness like petals Dropt one after one?

Though the world of your hands be more gracious And lovelier in lordship of things Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious Warm heaven of her imminent wings, Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, For the love of old loves and lost times; And receive in your palace of painting This revel of rhymes.

Though the seasons of man full of losses Make empty the years full of youth, If but one thing be constant in crosses, Change lays not her hand upon truth; Hopes die, and their tombs are for token That the grief as the joy of them ends