Light, like a closing flower, covers to earth her herds,
Out of the world we only watch for the rise of moon;
Darker the twilight glimmers, dulls the warble of birds,
Over the silent field travels the night-jar’s tune.
Here, at my side, so close that even your breath I hear,
Face and form that I love, now with the night made one,
Pray not for any star! Come not, O moon, for fear
Lest in thy light we lose our way ere the dream be done.
Touch, and clasp, and be close! Kiss, oh kiss, and be warm!
What is here, O beloved, so like a sea without sound?
Under the swathe at our feet, swifter than wings of storm,
Summer speeds on his way: Spring lies dead in the ground.
How like a closing flower, clasped by a sleeping bee,
Life folds over us now:–and here in the midst love lies.
O beloved, O flower of night, no morrow’s moon shall we see:
Between a dusk and a day we meet, and at dawn Time dies!
(Laurence Housman)
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