MAKE not this hour less lovely with the fear That other hours may be less exquisite, Beauty grown gray like dust, and twilight near, And a still house with fire and lamps unlit; Mar not a single memory we share With grief that even memories must wane, As bird notes vanish through the summer air Down the rich fragrance of a meadow lane. If dusk and silence wait, then, for its stay, Know to the full each transient loveliness, Challenging even death to lure away Before its time the flower of one caress: So may one celandine a garden be, And this brief hour enfold eternity. |