hath made thee A ruler for manfolk: pass on then unpitied! There is darkness between us till the measure's fulfilment. Amidst singing thou hear'st not, fair sights that thou seest not, Think this eve on the deeds thou shalt set in men's hands To bring fair days about for which thou hast no blessing. Then fall asleep fearless of dead days that return not; Yet dream if thou may'st that thou yet hast a hope!     —For thy dull morrow cometh and is as to-day is.

O sweet wind of the night, wherewith now ariseth The red moon through the garden boughs frail, overladen, O faint murmuring tongue of the dream-tide triumphant, That wouldst tell me sad tales in the times long passed over, If somewhat I sicken and turn to your freshness, From no shame it is of earth's tangle and trouble, And deeds done for nought, and change that forgetteth; But for hope of the lips that I kissed on the sea-strand, But for hope of the hands that clung trembling about me,—     And the breast that was heaving with words driven backward, By longing I longed for, by pain of departing, By my eyes that knew her pain, my pain that might speak not—     Yea, for hope of the morn when the sea is passed over, And for hope of the next moon the elm-boughs shall tangle; And fresh dawn, and fresh noon, and fresh night of desire Still following and changing, with nothing forgotten; For hope of new wonder each morn, when I, waking Behold her awaking eyes turning to seek me; For hope of fresh marvels each time the world changing Shall show her feet moving in noontide to meet me; For hope of fresh bliss, past all words, half forgotten, When her voice shall break through the hushed blackness of night.     —O sweet wind of the summer-tide, broad moon a-whitening, Bear me witness to Love, and the world he has fashioned! It shall change, we shall change, as through rain and through sunshine The green rod of the rose-bough to blossoming changeth:     Still lieth in wait with his sweet tale untold of Each long year of Love, and the first scarce beginneth, Wherein I have hearkened to the word God hath whispered, Why the fair world was fashioned mid wonders uncounted. Breathe soft, O sweet wind, for surely she speaketh: Weary I wax, and my life is a-waning; Life lapseth fast, and I faint for thee, Pharamond, What are thou lacking if Love no more sufficeth?     —Weary not, sweet, as I weary to meet thee; Look not on the long way but my eyes that were weeping Faint not in love as thy Pharamond fainteth!—     —Yea, Love were enough if thy lips were not lacking.

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