Xxxii

The downs, like uplands in Eden, Gleam in an afterglow Like a rose-world ruining earthwards-- Mystical, wistful, slow!

Near and afar in the leafage, That last glad call to the nest! And the thought of you hangs and triumphs With Hesper low in the west!

Till the song and the light and the colour, The passion of earth and sky, Are blent in a rapture of boding Of the death we should one day die.