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...A SENSE OF DIRECTION by KAREN SWENSON JINNY THE JUST by MATTHEW PRIOR THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE by MATTHEW PRIOR MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 11 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE HAPPY WANDERER by PERCY ADDLESHAW OPEN THY HEART by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS STANZAS COMPOSED AT CARNAC by MATTHEW ARNOLD PURIFICATION OF YE B. VIRGIN (TO A BASE, A TENOR, AND TWO TREBLES) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |