—No, not on earth can such love be!
Though fondest friends that bear the name,
Yet must our deeds by Praise and Blame
Be ruled; to sovran Right and Wrong
Our feelings and our thoughts belong.
Were I my own, while life endures,
So long were I not mine, but yours;
Ours were the Dawns that sprinkle bright
Yon crusted Alps with sparks of light;
Ours thoughtful Eve, her single care
To make some shadowy vale more fair;
Ours Noon, that planes the furrowed sea;
Night, one grand show for you and me.
How is it now? Fast whirling by,
A pomp, a cloudy company,
Sweep the dim Hours: if Love lay hand
Upon a straggler of the band,
It is enough,—the spirit's pride
Of mastery is satisfied:
The rest, as haughty as they go,
Their necks to humbler service owe;
Some need, of sensual nature born,
Subjects the blithest hour of morn;
Eve slaves in beauty to some task
Of Reason, half-ashamed to ask;
Some refuse moments of dull light,
Love's pittance out of all his right
On universal Day and Night.
And yet we love!—
Plongeon, Geneva.