And if on some fair eve, from depths of space, Should come two lovers hand in hand, The oak, like a large and puissant wing Would reach its shadow out to where they stand, And the rose would give them of its perfumed grace. III Dead is the glycin and the hawthorne flower; But now is the time when heather-bloom is seen, And on this so calm eve the rustling wind Brings you the fragrance of the starved Campine. Love and breathe them, thinking of its fate; Over that rugged soil the storm-wind lives; Sand and sea have made of it their prey, Yet of the little left, it ever gives. Of old, though autumn came, we dwelled with it, With plain and forest, with the storm and light, Until the angels of the Christmas time Inscribed its legend with their winged flight. Your heart became more simple and more sure; We loved the villagers and the forlorn Old women who would speak of their great age And of old spinning-wheels their hands had worn. Our quiet house upon the misty heath Was frank and welcoming to all who came; Its roof was dear to us, its door and sill, And hearth long blackened by familiar flame. When over vast, pale, measureless repose The total splendour of the night was set, A lesson of deep silence we received, Whose ardour never shall our souls forget. Since we were more alone amid the plain, The dawn and evening entered more our thought, Our eyes were franker and our hearts more sweet And with the world's desire more fully fraught. We found content in not exacting it; The sadness, even, of the days was kind, And the rare sunlight of the autumn's end Charmed us the more that it seemed weak and blind. Dead is the glycin and the hawthorne flower; But now are the days when heather-bloom is seen, Remember these, and let the rustling wind Bring you the fragrance of the starved Campine. IV Draw your chair to mine And stretch your hands to the hearth', That I may see between your fingers Shine The ancient flame; And look upon the fire Quietly, with your eyes That have no fear of any light, So that for me they be the same, Yet franker when the blaze leaps higher Making them as from deep within you, bright. Ah, how fair still is our life and fain! When the clock strikes out its notes of gold And I approach you and as a flower hold; And a fever slow and pure, Which we will not to restrain, Leads the kiss, marvellous and sure, From hand to brow, from brow to lips again.