Two Sonnets

LOVE is the maker of mankind, I say:
and when, for glut of joy, he made us two
(for surely, till he made us each anew,
we had not lived or breathed: we were dead clay),
he tricked us out as gods, and to his way
bent perfectly, as Love alone could do:
you made divine in me, as I in you,
each planned and perfect for the other’s play.

And by this holy change that Love can make,
each star-like blade of grass, each blossoming star,
is lovely in your eyes, for fair love’s sake,
that else were foolish things to you, and far.
I am your world’s warm light. But you to me
are world itself: all else is fantasy.

THIS is the sun you knew and loved of old:
why do the woods lie silent? Why in vain
do streams run softly as the summer rain
and young leaves gild them with the summer’s gold?
Why must the dawn companionless unfold
on milky heights, where you and I have lain
the starred night through, when sea and sky and plain
were all a toy within our hands to hold?

Yes, in your time, I know that you will come.
- And yet, the winds at summer’s heels blow chill:
let not your coming be too long delayed,
lest, when you turn, you find the forest dumb,
the revel past, and winter in the glade,
and none but I, who love you, waiting still.