The golden hinges of the year have turned—
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands
Good night, love!
May heaven's brightest stars watch over thee!
Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee;
And through the night,
What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Blame not my tears, love, to you has been given
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;
Knowest thou not that of all human gifts
God chooses love?—alone, that may be laid
Come where the white waves dance along the shore
Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;
Let me not die for ever! when I'm gone
To the cold earth; but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequestered dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Once more, once more into the sunny fields
Oh, let me stray!
And drink the joy that young existence yields
On a bright, cloudless day.
Oh that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,