 | The coming of love |  |
THE SPIRIT OF THE SUNRISE.
Though Love be mocked by Death's obscene derision,Love still is Nature's truth and Death her lie;
Yet hard it is to see the dear flesh die,
To taste the fell destroyer's crowning spite
That blasts the soul with life's most cruel sight,
Corruption's hand at work in Life's transition:
This sight was spared thee: thou shalt still retain
Her body's image pictured in thy brain;
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Thine eye shall see: no stain of Death shall cloud
Rhona! Behold the vision!
PERCY.
As on that morn when round our bridal pillow
The sunrise came and you cried: “Smell the whin!”
And oped the tent to let the fragrance in,
Yon clouds—like molten metal, boiling brass,
Brightening to gold—are crested as they pass
With Love's own fire!—And while each gleaming billow
Rolls o'er the Dell, 'tis Love's own hand that launches
The self-same promise through the self-same branches—
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And birch and elm and thorn pass on the flash
Down to the river-willow!
| The coming of love | |