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NOW AND THEN.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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NOW AND THEN.

Sing me a song, my nightingale,
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
And make it low,” he said, “I pray,
And make it sweet.” But she said, “Nay;
Come when the morn begins to trail
Her golden glories o'er the gray—
Morn is the time for love's all-hail!”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
“Then give me back, my heart's delight,
Hid in among the twilight flowers,
The kiss I gave you yesterday—
See how the moon this way has leant,
As if to yield a soft consent.
Surely,” he said, “you will requite
My love in this?” But she said, “Nay.”
“Yea, now,” he said. But she said, “Hush!
And come to me at morning-blush.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!
“But say, at least, you love me, love.
Hid in among the twilight flowers;
No winds are listening, far or near—
The sleepy doves will never hear.”
“Ah, leave me in my sacred glen;
And when the saffron morn shall close
Her misty arms about the rose,
Come, and my speech, my thought shall prove—
Not now,” she said; “not now, but then.”
He said, “The morning is not ours!”