In love's afterglow, full of stars, Those lilies of the river of night, Sing no song, dear, speak no word. The white noontide has ebbed into gold; Shores-breaking seas cease to roar; Lo! the moonrise of our soul. Hardly a kiss, or the shadow of a caress; No decking the hour with the jasmines of touch; But a rose-petal shivering in exquisite agony—our love. The weary sunset has grown wearier; A vague lassitude encircles us twain, As separation builds its pathway of tears. Cease weeping, yet the saffron light lingers; The stars throb in nebulous lustre, As our hearts to the music of desire. What matters if winter be nigh? We sang summer to sleep, And autumn on its bed of leaves. Now comes the hour of parting for us, As the last light flickers and fades; Even love's afterglow dying, and is dead. Alas! thou art gone, as are the hours of day; The hard gem-burning stars do not set! Oh, In what dark, in what forest roamest thou? |