Iv

When they together saw the Calendar Slip by in months that wore Spring all days long, He made his lover’s verse and roundel song, The burthen of the rhyme his love of her!... What though the storm swept by with rainy stir, And winds, like ghosts, would ’round the windows throng, They sat heart-linked, hand-linked; and bright and strong Riot ran through their veins like Midsummer. For palm to palm is exquisite as May; And lip on lip is mad July at best! Where is the fire for this pale winter’s day? For one who sits alone at Death’s behest? Ghosts of the storm peer in with charnel mirth At ghosts of ashes on the gusty hearth.