I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho’ I linger’d there Till every daisy slept, and Love’s white star Beam’d thro’ the thicken’d cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. “Now,” said he, “will you climb the top of Art; You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,—the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.” So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o’er and o’er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving—such a noise of life Swarm’d in the golden present, such a voice Call’d to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm’d the dark. And all that night I heard the watchmen peal The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O’er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odours on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased.