 | In the Dorian Mood |  |
66
BEFORE THE TIME OF MOWING
Deep in long seedling grass the meadows lie,Bedappled by the shadows of the trees:
Now and again the bloom-enamoured breeze
Comes for one little moment rustling by:
The great soft moon with drench of golden dye
Enchants the world, till all the glimmering leas
Give forth strange warmth. Were all one's hours like these,
It were not hard, love, for us twain to die!
For grief is dead now. Listen, only list
To yon bird's voice: o'er bloomy orchard ground,
67
Floats out the singing of the nightingale!
‘Oh, love, love, love, love lost, love suddenly found’—
Such is her descant. Nay, but thou art pale!
| In the Dorian Mood | |