IV. A MONTH—the first from many—now hath past Unagitated by the burning breath Of Passion, and a stillness as of death Hath held my breast in grateful bondage fast, As if the exhausted soul her wings had cast Contented, nor Love's smile nor Glory's wreath Could tempt to soar above or sink beneath Life's common course—long scorned—scarce loved at last. Yet were it well when the worn heart hath run Too oft its weary rounds in bliss or pain,— Love—Sorrow—Pleasure—Study—and in vain! To set in calmness, like a summer sun, Except that when our mortal day is done We sink indeed and never rise again. |