And what with the dawn of night began With the dusk of day was done; For that is the way of woman and man, When a hazard has made them one.

Arc upon arc, from shade to shine, The World went thundering free; And what was his errand but hers and mine-- The lords of him, I and she?

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one.

XXIII

I took a hansom on to-day For a round I used to know-- That I used to take for a woman's sake In a fever of to-and-fro.

There were the landmarks one and all-- What did they stand to show?

Street and square and river were there-- Where was the antient woe?

Never a hint of a challenging hope Nor a hope laid sick and low, But a longing dead as its kindred sped A thousand years ago!

XXIV

Only a freakish wisp of hair?-- Nay, but its wildest, its most frolic whorl Stands for a slim, enamoured, sweet-fleshed girl!

And so, a tangle of dream and charm and fun, Its every crook a promise and a snare, Its every dowle, or genially gadding Or crisply curled, Heartening and madding, Empales a novel and peculiar world Of right, essential fantasies, And shining acts as yet undone, But in these wonder-working days Soon, soon to ask our sovran Lord, the Sun, For countenance and praise, As of the best his storying eye hath seen, And his vast memory can parallel, Among the darling victories-- Beneficent, beautiful, inexpressible-- Of life on time!-- Yet have they flashed and been In millions, since 'twas his to bring The heaven-creating Spring, An angel of adventure and delight, In all her beauty and all her strength and worth, With her great guerdons of romance and spright, And those high needs that fill the flesh with might, Home to the citizens of this good, green earth.

Poor souls--they have but time and place To play their transient little play And sing their singular little song, Ere they are rushed away Into the antient, undisclosing Night; And none is left to tell of the clear eyes That filled them with G.o.d's grace, And turned the iron skies to skies of gold!

None; but the sweetest She herself grows old-- Grows old, and dies; And, but for such a lovely s.n.a.t.c.h of hair As this, none--none could guess, or know That She was kind and fair, And he had nights and days beyond compare-- How many dusty and silent years ago!

XXV

This is the moon of roses, The lovely and flowerful time; And, as white roses climb the wall, Your dreams about me climb.

This is the moon of roses, Glad and golden and blue; And, as red roses drink of the sun, My dreams they drink of you.

This is the moon of roses!

The cherishing South-West blows, And life, dear heart, for me and you, O, life's a rejoicing rose.

XXVI

June, and a warm, sweet rain; June, and the call of a bird: To a lover in pain What lovelier word?

Two of each other fain Happily heart on heart: So in the wind and rain Spring bears his part!

O, to be heart on heart One with the warm June rain, G.o.d with us from the start, And no more pain!

XXVII

It was a bowl of roses: There in the light they lay, Languishing, glorying, glowing Their life away.

And the soul of them rose like a presence, Into me crept and grew, And filled me with something--some one-- O, was it you?

XXVIII

Your feet as glad And light as a dove's homing wings, you came-- Came with your sweets to fill my hands, My sense with your perfume.

We closed with lips Grown weary and fain with longing from afar, The while your grave, enamoured eyes Drank down the dream in mine.

Till the great need So lovely and so instant grew, it seemed The embodied Spirit of the Spring Hung at me, heart on heart.

XXIX

A world of leaf.a.ge murmurous and a-twinkle; The green, delicious plenitude of June; Love and laughter and song The blue day long Going to the same glad, golden tune-- The same glad tune!

Clouds on the dim, delighting skies a-sprinkle; Poplars black in the wake of a setting moon; Love and languor and sleep And the star-sown deep Going to the same good, golden tune-- The same good tune!

x.x.x

I send you roses--red, like love, And white, like death, sweet friend: Born in your bosom to rejoice, Languish, and droop, and end.

If the white roses tell of death, Let the red roses mend The talk with true stories of love Unchanging till the end.

Red and white roses, love and death-- What else is left to send?

For what is life but love, the means, And death, true Wife, the end?

x.x.xI

These glad, these great, these goodly days Bewildering hope, outrunning praise, The Earth, renewed by the great Sun's longing, Utters her joy in a million ways!

What is there left, sweet Soul and true-- What, for us and our dream to do?