A DAY OF THE DAYS
I
Faint red the rowan-berries in the glen begin to turn,
The wind is whispering to the woods the rune of their decay,
Those woods where once upon my lips I felt your kisses burn,
Where we met, and where we parted—it seems but yesterday.
II
Through all their breathing branches the spirits of the trees
Whispered of love that day; and we, breathing their passionate breath,
Trembled before the flaming veil that hid love's mysteries—
Where now, alone, I bow before the mystery of death.
III
Martyrs of Love and Hope we stood, and in each other's eyes
Read the sweet secret of our love; and that transfiguring day,
Which crowned my spirit with grace to bear the sorrow that makes wise,
From that spirit's Holy-places will never pass away.
