  BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue; No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold; A revel of rich colours, hue on hue, From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold. A vagueness in the undulant hill line, The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing; Æolian harmonies in groves of pine, And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring. A sense of gracious calm afar and near, And yet a something wanting,—one fine ray For consummation. Love, were you but here, Then were the day indeed a perfect day. |
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