It does not last. Red banners rise again In hard defiance of a new attack.

The drums are throbbing as across the plain Besieger and besieged come surging back. The battle is repeated to reduce Resurgent tower and to sign a truce.

ΧΙ

The nightingale has tuned his liquid flute, His song a moon-moth fluttering at the pane. A hyla softly plucks a silver luteThe melody as cool and clear as rain. How wonderful to wake and waking lie Upon your breast, communing with content, Waiting for sleep to kiss each drowsy eye, Naming the hours before the night be spent.

Turn, turn to me! Dawn is not far away When we, reluctant from this dream must rise To clothe ourselves with rue as impious day Begins his laggard ride across the skies. Oh wasted time before the sunset burn And we to this enraptured bed return.

XII

I give this world of water, earth and air,

Seas, mountains and the starry steeps of sky,

Wind, sun and rain, and all things strong and fair,

All laughter and all loving fore and by;

The lightest touch of tenderness, the wide

Surge of all passion that must kiss and keep;

The perfect moment on the turning tide

Which bears spent lovers to the bourne of sleep.

It grieves me that I cannot give you more. Were I as rich as Creosus, still no gift Eagerly given from that golden store Could ever match your largesse when you lift Your head and smile and look at me askance! My heart bursts like a bubble at your glance.

XIII

Who lifts the lark on an imperious wing

Into the morning on a tour of song,

Will surely hear me as I rise and sing

Throughout the daylight that seems overlong.

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