At such a time, in such a spot,
The world seems made of light,
Our blissful hearts remember not
How surely follows night.
I cannot, Alfred, dream of aught,
That casts a shade of woe;
That heaven is reigning in my thought,
Which wood and wave and earth have caught
From skies that ever flow.
That heaven which my sweet lover's brow
Has won me to adore,
Which from his blue eyes beaming now
Reflects a still intenser glow
Than Native's heaven can pour.
I know our souls are all divine,
I know that when we die
What seems the vilest, even like thine
A part of God himself shall shine
In perfect purity.
But coldly breaks November's day;
Its changes, charmless all,
Unmarked, unloved, they pass away:
We do not wish one hour to stay
Nor sigh at evening's fall.