POEMS.
17
Riot, O wind, in the meadow's green tresses,
Ripple the pools with the rush of your wing,
Wake the white land with your wanton caresses,
For this is the hour when Love is king.
Ripple the pools with the rush of your wing,
Wake the white land with your wanton caresses,
For this is the hour when Love is king.
Wilt thou come through mist and cloudland of dreaming,
Spirit I love, on the wings of sleep—
Through the night's dark space, through the moon's white beaming,
As the spark floats down from the meteor's sweep?
For we are apart, but our souls' desire
Like fire to fire shall leap and cling;
And the flame of thought, by the wind fanned higher,
Burns through the hour when Love is king.
Spirit I love, on the wings of sleep—
Through the night's dark space, through the moon's white beaming,
As the spark floats down from the meteor's sweep?
For we are apart, but our souls' desire
Like fire to fire shall leap and cling;
And the flame of thought, by the wind fanned higher,
Burns through the hour when Love is king.
C. D.
