EACH hour until we meet is as a bird That wings from far his gradual way along The rustling covert of my soul,--his song Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr'd: But at the hour of meeting, a clear word Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue; Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers wrong, Full oft through our contending joys unheard. What of that hour at last, when for her sake No wing may fly to me nor song may flow, When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake, And think how she, far from me, with like eyes Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO BE CLOSELY WRITTEN ON A SMALL PIECE OF PAPER by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS RAIN AFTER A VAUDEVILLE SHOW by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 14 by OMAR KHAYYAM THE TRIUMPH OF TIME by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE PRAYER FOR A BOY WITH A KITE by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 31. 'TIS YIELDING GAINS THE LOVER VICTORY by PHILIP AYRES OUT OF THE SHADOW by MARGARET FAIRLESS BARBER |