Page:The Yellow Book - 13.djvu/186

Soft as the amorous dove's uplifted pinion,
Sweet as the fair first sleep of new-born sorrow.
There s not the least small stir on yonder wall
Of grass or fern; hushed is the torrent's throat
Within the dark ravine, and in yon oak
The woodpecker his many-sounding stroke
Has stayed; the windless air bears not one note
To vex the dreaming air this noontide fall.
But we, my love, sleep not, but wake to prove
The inconstant constancy o the noon of love;
My kingdom lost! which once more I regain,
And then do lose with every evening's pain—
A conqueror who takes his spoil, yet yields
More than he wins of Love's ne'er-conquered fields—
Some unimagined treasure there must be
That I from you may draw, or you from me,
Some joy which we from envious time may wrest
That shall make droop the proud o'er-topping crest
Of yesterday; and so the exhaustless store
Offers fresh marvels of love-lure and lore.
Thus ours full harvest is; our noon of love
Nor afternoon nor aftermath may know,
With changeless change it does our spirits move
And of love s hours eternises the flow:
Better than best of what is past, O Day!
Until thou diest with thy last rose-ray,
Better than best until to-morrow shines
A-quivering through yon purple band of pines,
Ever the best, beneath noon's ripened skies,
O Spirit and Heart that me imparadise!