The white moth is wooing his chosen mate, The birds have a nest in the weed and fern, But, love, you knock at my heart too late, The priest is come and the candles burn. Where were you, love, when the morning was heavy with mating? And in life's noonday before vivid dreams had departed? Why did you tarry when twilight was heavy with mating? Now, it is midnight ... pale sleeptime ... And I am chill hearted! The moonflower bends with the moth's frail weight, The birds are asleep in the grass and fern, But, love, you knock at my heart too late, The priest is come and the candles burn. |