No sooner lip to lip, than we are fraught With sun-lit fervour that o'erpowers, As though two gods within us sought A god-like union in these souls of ours; Ah, how we feel divinity is near-- Our hearts so freshened by their primal might Of light, That in their clarity the universe shines clear. Ah, joy alone, the ferment of the earth, Doth bring to life and stir To far, illimitable birth; As there above, across the bars Of heaven, where voyage veils of gossamer, Are born the myriad-flowering stars. How for us is design of life profound! All seems as pure as leaping fire-- Our words so filled with fair desire We say them o'er to hear them ceaseless sound. We are the ones, victorious and sublime, Who seek eternity, With humble pride;--our love shall ever be Free from the bonds of time. XXV That nothing may elude our close embrace, This depth of holy love, That through the body love be clear with grace, I seek with thee the garden of our love. Thy breast is there, an offering, Thy hands reach out to me, Naive and tender whispering Is breathed and heard by thee. The shadows from the branches now O'er thy throat and visage pass, Thy hair has spread its blossoms low In garlands, on the grass. All blue and silver broods the night, A silent, sleeping bed, this hour-- Sweet night! whose breezes one by one deflower The lilies trembling in the low moon's light. XXVI Although, these Autumn eves, So wistfully, Between the trees, all down the paths Fall the listless yellow leaves Between the trees and down the paths, Although while Autumn grieves, The night-wind reaps a harvest pale, So wistfully, Where the late-blown roses fail Loosing petals wan in showers-- Ah, let no petal from our love Fall and wither with the flowers. But let us both lean close above The smouldering hearth of memory-- But let us tend and feed the glowing coals And reach our hands and warm our souls Against the winter-cold and misery, Against the hour that tolls the death of all desire, Against our very selves, our stricken passion-- Oh, lean with me above the blessed fire That Memory's hands have kindled in compassion. And if the skies be drowned While passionate Autumn roams the world and rakes The woods and the wild lakes, No echo of the madness shall be found In that safe garden, inmost and supreme, here in the breathing stillness sound The quiet footfalls of our Dream. XXVII