 | Love-Songs |  |
55
THIS AFTERNOON.
This afternoon I go to meet my love,—
And, through the earlier moments of the day,
My pulses like swift throbbing surges play,
Mixed with the soft respiring of a dove,
And pinions beat the azure cliffs above
And frolic in and out each windy bay—
I triumph; for she hath not answered “Nay;”
I hold her written word in sign thereof.
And, through the earlier moments of the day,
My pulses like swift throbbing surges play,
Mixed with the soft respiring of a dove,
And pinions beat the azure cliffs above
And frolic in and out each windy bay—
I triumph; for she hath not answered “Nay;”
I hold her written word in sign thereof.
Ah, love! 'tis but a wintry afternoon,
Yet will we make it as a summer sleep
Winged with strange odours passing soft and deep—
A clear and passionate crimson-hooded swoon:
And though our ruddy heaven be over soon,
It leaves a rose for either heart to keep.
Yet will we make it as a summer sleep
Winged with strange odours passing soft and deep—
A clear and passionate crimson-hooded swoon:
And though our ruddy heaven be over soon,
It leaves a rose for either heart to keep.
| Love-Songs | |