No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours: Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June, The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers. For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers, Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough-- Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers? Was ever a moment meeter made for love? Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss; And all your yielding sweetness beautiful-- Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this! TESTAMENT If I had died, and never seen the dawn For which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawn Of silvery grasses; if there had been no light, And last night merged into perpetual night; I doubt if I should ever have been content To have closed my eyes without some testament To the great benefits that marked my faring Through the sweet world; for all my joy was sharing And lonely pleasures were few. Unto which end Three legacies I’ll send, Three legacies, already half possess’d: One to a friend, of all good friends the best, Better than which is nothing; yet another Unto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother; The third to you, Most beautiful, most true, Most perfect one, to whom they all are due. Quick, quick ... while there is time.... O best of friends, I leave you one sublime Summer, one fadeless summer. ’Twas begun Ere Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun, When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallows Swift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows; When all our vale was dappled blossom and light, And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night! You shall remember that rich dust at even Which made old Evesham like a street in heaven, Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of golden Air all her dreamy towers and gables olden. You shall remember How arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack’d with rowing, Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing; And how our bodies, beautifully white, Stretch’d to a long stroke lengthened in green light, And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise, And pressed the kissing water from our eyes. Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise? And then, crown of the day, a tired returning With happy sunsets over Bredon burning, With music and with moonlight, and good ale, And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phlox Our garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks, Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale, With a night scent to match the nightingale, Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night’s shadows, Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows: As humble was our joy, and as intense Our rapture. So, before I hurry hence, Yours be the memory. One night again,