In Love
M
Maurice Thompson
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Love is an isthmus that doth link
This life with that which is to be;
On either hand rolls off a sea,
To eastern verge, to western brink
Of heaven that flashes goldenly;
To suns that rise and suns that sink.
And Love hath many winding ways
Among the blooming Yulan trees,
Where hum the honey-laden bees,
And linger long the sunny days.
All bird-songs that are ariose
Re-echo in the viny dells,
Where all the aromatic smells
O'erburden every breeze that blows.
Dear, we shall build our cabin here,
Where the chuchampac bourgeons low,
And Persian roses flash and glow
And vie with thy ripe cheeks, my dear.
Effete are all the other lands,
The sun there looks on woodless hills,
A lifeless glebe some idiot tills,
And tends his herds on scorching sands.
We'll flute our love from golden reeds
Cut from the margins of the lakes,
Where thickest grow the feathery brakes
And highest mount the winged seeds.
My beautiful, thine azure eyes
Shall be as twilight stars to me,
Seen in the depths of some calm sea
Whereon no storm can ever rise.
Thy sweet blue eyes, untaught to weep,
Shall close to dream--wake to rejoice,
While far away shall boom the voice
Of deep that answers unto deep!
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