XXX

My Lady of the Sonnets, one word more, The last; and, after, let the silence fall. Our year is ended, and things great and small Glow with its glory; could we live it o'er, What would we scatter from its precious store Of pearl, chalcedony, and topaz—all The many-jewelled moments that we call Love's treasure—we who had not loved before!

Into that treasure plunge we both our hands, The while we laugh, and love, and live again. What rainbow-splendours and what golden sands Fall from our fingers! ... Now let come the pain And steal the shadow, moan the wintry sea; Locked is the casket: in your hands the key!