  BY one rapt day Love doth his harvest mete, And from dream wings in memory’s light caressed Fans calms of joy into my burning breast. It is that day when Love bowed at thy feet, And all the noontide in a rush of heat Rippled with whispers of thy love confessed; And larks afar sank down with sobs of rest, Finding their carol heights in thee complete. The day when, midst the well-known Sussex wood, Stream music kissed the spirit of the wold And sang the sun to rest, mingling its gold With heather-bell and oak, and, rapt in moods Of melody and shy sweet interludes, Held our soul’s transport still with joys untold. |
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