 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
126
TOO LATE.
Love has its morn, its noon, its eve, its night.
We never had the noontide,—never knew
The deep, intense, illimitable blue
Of fervid, mid-day heavens, making bright
With princely liberality of light
Waters the water-lily trembles through;
But, in the evening's shadow did we two
Set out to gain Love's farthest, fairest height.
We never had the noontide,—never knew
The deep, intense, illimitable blue
Of fervid, mid-day heavens, making bright
With princely liberality of light
Waters the water-lily trembles through;
But, in the evening's shadow did we two
Set out to gain Love's farthest, fairest height.
O love! too late, too late for this we met;
The goal was near, the nightfall nearer yet.
One star of Memory lightens in our track,
And all the rest is dark; I will go back,—
Back to the paths we walked in, and there stay,
Until I change them for the silent way.
The goal was near, the nightfall nearer yet.
One star of Memory lightens in our track,
And all the rest is dark; I will go back,—
Back to the paths we walked in, and there stay,
Until I change them for the silent way.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |