Page:The Yellow Book - 13.djvu/186

168 Soft as the amorous dove's uplifted pinion,
 * Sweet as the fair first sleep of new-born sorrow.

There s not the least small stir on yonder wall Of grass or fern; hushed is the torrent's throat Within the dark ravine, and in yon oak The woodpecker his many-sounding stroke Has stayed; the windless air bears not one note To vex the dreaming air this noontide fall. But we, my love, sleep not, but wake to prove The inconstant constancy o the noon of love; My kingdom lost! which once more I regain, And then do lose with every evening's pain— A conqueror who takes his spoil, yet yields More than he wins of Love's ne'er-conquered fields— Some unimagined treasure there must be That I from you may draw, or you from me, Some joy which we from envious time may wrest That shall make droop the proud o'er-topping crest Of yesterday; and so the exhaustless store Offers fresh marvels of love-lure and lore. Thus ours full harvest is; our noon of love Nor afternoon nor aftermath may know, With changeless change it does our spirits move And of love s hours eternises the flow: Better than best of what is past, O Day! Until thou diest with thy last rose-ray, Better than best until to-morrow shines A-quivering through yon purple band of pines, Ever the best, beneath noon's ripened skies, O Spirit and Heart that me imparadise!

Rh