AS in the silence the clear moonlight drips
Among the fields that love her drowsily,
These passionate moments trickle on through time,
From soul to languorous soul.
Like mad musicians upon fretted harps,
The senses play upon the poignant nerves,—
And colours clothe our mood
As smoke against the light, as shimmering prisms
Irised with pallors of an opal's heart
In which the glittered pattern of desire
Smoulders and changes. . . .
O love, thou nightingale-throated singer,
Thread on thy jewelled chords from start to star
And keep thy silver delicate delight
Out of the flush and lustre that makes mad.
Let thy fairy feet
Go tripping down a scarcely scented path,
Between an avenue of breathless flowers.
The hours glide by as swans across a lake,
Across the luminous waters of desire,
And beat as wings the rustle of soft words,
As love bends down,
Breathing his adoration on a fainting mouth.
Among the fields that love her drowsily,
These passionate moments trickle on through time,
From soul to languorous soul.
Like mad musicians upon fretted harps,
The senses play upon the poignant nerves,—
And colours clothe our mood
As smoke against the light, as shimmering prisms
Irised with pallors of an opal's heart
In which the glittered pattern of desire
Smoulders and changes. . . .
O love, thou nightingale-throated singer,
Thread on thy jewelled chords from start to star
And keep thy silver delicate delight
Out of the flush and lustre that makes mad.
Let thy fairy feet
Go tripping down a scarcely scented path,
Between an avenue of breathless flowers.
The hours glide by as swans across a lake,
Across the luminous waters of desire,
And beat as wings the rustle of soft words,
As love bends down,
Breathing his adoration on a fainting mouth.
1917
83
