The Dark Night (XVIII)
by May Sinclair (1863-1946)
Our love is wovenOf a thousand strands—The cool fragrance of the first lilacAt morning,The first dew on the grass,The smell of wild mint in the wood,The pungent and earthy smell of ground ivy crushed under our feet;Songs of birds, songs of great poets;The leaping of the red squirrel in the tree,The running of the river,The commotion of stars and clouds in the high winds at night;And dark stillness.It is adorned with all the flowersThat stand in our garden;It holds the night and the day.
Our love is madeOf the South Wind and the West Wind,And the soft falling of rain;Of white April evenings;It is made of trees,And of the many-coloured fields on the hills;Of horizons,Dark sea-blue of the west, thin sky-blue of the east,With a yellow road between.The flames of sunset and sunriseMingle in the fire of our love.
