  The fields, the clouds, the farms and farming gear, The drifting kine, the scarlet apple trees ... Not of the sun but separate are these, And individual joys, and very dear; Yet when the sun is folded, they are here No more, the drifting skies: the argosies Of wagoned apples: still societies Of elms: red cattle on the stubbled year. So are you not love’s whole estate. I owe In many hearts more dues than I shall pay; Yet is your heart the spring of all love’s light, And should your love weary of me and go With all its thriving beams out of my day, These many loves would founder in that night. |
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