 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
90
ON THE HILL
I would not dwell with Passion; Passion grows
By what he feeds on—sense and sound and sight—
The myriad bubbles dancing to the light,
The frenzied fragrance of the wanton rose.
By what he feeds on—sense and sound and sight—
The myriad bubbles dancing to the light,
The frenzied fragrance of the wanton rose.
But Love may dwell with me: pure Love, that glows
The richer through the cold and lonely night;
And gilds with warm effulgence, brave and bright,
The frosty sparkle of unsullied snows.
The richer through the cold and lonely night;
And gilds with warm effulgence, brave and bright,
The frosty sparkle of unsullied snows.
When Passion throbs and quivers, Love is still
And piteous; swift to picture, apt to bend
And listen; at the shut of evening gray
He rises, threads the valley, climbs the hill,
To stand beside the milestone, stand and say
So many leagues divide me from my friend.
And piteous; swift to picture, apt to bend
And listen; at the shut of evening gray
He rises, threads the valley, climbs the hill,
To stand beside the milestone, stand and say
So many leagues divide me from my friend.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |