University of Virginia Library


221

LEAVING THE BOWER OF LOVE

Leaving the bower of love, I seek the scene
Where thought's mailed servants in their stout array
Drive with straight swords the opposing clouds between:
Oh, at the dawning of a stormy day
That breaks tempestuous over wastes of grey
We are living—yet within high thought's domain
Are there not many gracious words to say?
What if the singer's robe with sanguine stain
Be wet, voice hoarsened from the battle-rain,
Shall he not find more rest and sweeter after
When to his heart thy white form he doth strain,
Thou image of white soft peace, and hears thy laughter
Ringing high up towards many a gold hall-rafter
In love's delicious, bloodless, spotless fane?