I
The curtains now are drawn,
And the spindrift strikes the gla**,
Blown up the jagged pa**
By the surly salt sou'-west,
And the sneering glare is gone
Behind the yonder crest,
While she sings to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And d**h may come, but loving is divine.”
II
I stand here in the rain,
With its smite upon her stone,
And the gra**es that have grown
Over women, children, men,
And their texts that “Life is vain”;
But I hear the notes as when
Once she sang to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And d**h may come, but loving is divine.”