Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/122

 Were I a real Poet, I would sing Such joyous songs of you, and all mere truth; As true as buds and tender leaves in Spring, As true as lofty dreams in dreamful youth; That men should cry: How foolish every one Who thinks the world is getting out of tune! Where is the tarnish in our golden sun? Where is the clouding in our crystal moon? The lark sings now the eversame new song With which it soared through Eden's purest skies; This poet's music doth for us prolong The very speech Love learnt in Paradise; This maiden is as young and pure and fair As Eve agaze on Adam sleeping there.

When will you have not a sole kiss left, And my prodigal mouth be all bereft? When your lips have ravished the last sweet flush Of the red with which the roses blush: Now I kiss them and kiss them till they hush.