The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
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SALUT D'AMOUR. |
The Poetical Works of John Payne | ||
311
SALUT D'AMOUR.
LOVE of leafy days,
Whilst the summer stays,
Whilst the fields are golden and the skies are blue,
I am sure of you.
Whilst the sunshine plays
In the scented ways
And the world is new,
In the glory of your gaze,
Sweet of summer, Love looks through.
Whilst the summer stays,
Whilst the fields are golden and the skies are blue,
I am sure of you.
Whilst the sunshine plays
In the scented ways
And the world is new,
In the glory of your gaze,
Sweet of summer, Love looks through.
Then I hold you, joy of June,
When the woods burst out in tune
And the marigolds are shining with their mirrors of the sun,
When the day and night are one,
When the sunlight's golden shoon
And the silver-sandalled moon
After one another run,
Through the pearl and opal cloisters of the sky,
Like a youth and maid that fly
From each other nor draw nigh
But at morning and at evening, when the twilight is begun.
When the woods burst out in tune
And the marigolds are shining with their mirrors of the sun,
When the day and night are one,
When the sunlight's golden shoon
And the silver-sandalled moon
After one another run,
Through the pearl and opal cloisters of the sky,
Like a youth and maid that fly
From each other nor draw nigh
But at morning and at evening, when the twilight is begun.
Bird of August skies,
Love that never dies,
Whilst the sunshine lingers, hovers on your brow;
Still the love-looks rise
In your happy eyes:
Hap what may when winter rages,
In your breast when frosty age is
And the bleak and surly snowtime turns your blood to ice,
Now, at least, whilst throstles tarry and the blossom's on the bough,
Ours is present Paradise:
Come what will, you love me now.
Love that never dies,
Whilst the sunshine lingers, hovers on your brow;
Still the love-looks rise
In your happy eyes:
Hap what may when winter rages,
In your breast when frosty age is
And the bleak and surly snowtime turns your blood to ice,
Now, at least, whilst throstles tarry and the blossom's on the bough,
Ours is present Paradise:
Come what will, you love me now.
The Poetical Works of John Payne | ||