AS a quiet night on discordant sound, As a gentle rain on a thirsty ground, As a shadow falling where hart's-tongue grows, As a sunbeam wooing a folded rose— Thy coming was sweet. As the petals of poppies the wind has tossed, As the flitting of swallows before the frost, As the passing of dew in the morning light, As the rush of the deer on a northern height— Thy going was fleet. |