A Dark Month / From Swinburne's Collected Poetical Works Vol. V

Because I adore you And fall On the knees of my spirit before you— After all,
You need not insult, My king, With neglect, though your spirit exult In the spring,
Even me, though not worth, God knows, One word of you sent me in mirth, Or one rose
Out of all in your garden That grow Where the frost and the wind never harden Flakes of snow,
Nor ever is rain At all, But the roses rejoice to remain Fair and tall—
The roses of love,
More sweet Than blossoms that rain from above Round our feet,
When under high bowers We pass, Where the west wind freckles with flowers All the grass.
But a child's thoughts bear More bright Sweet visions by day, and more fair Dreams by night,
Than summer's whole treasure Can be: What am I that his thought should take pleasure, Then, in me?
I am only my love's True lover, With a nestful of songs, like doves Under cover,
That I bring in my cap Fresh caught, To be laid on my small king's lap— Worth just nought.
Yet it haply may hap That he, When the mirth in his veins is as sap In a tree,
Will remember me too
Some day Ere the transit be thoroughly through Of this May—
Or perchance, if such grace May be, Some night when I dream of his face. Dream of me.
Or if this be too high A hope For me to prefigure in my Horoscope,
He may dream of the place Where we Basked once in the light of his face, Who now see
Nought brighter, not one Thing bright, Than the stars and the moon and the sun, Day nor night.
XX
Day by darkling day, Overpassing, bears away Somewhat of the burden of this weary May.
Night by numbered night, Waning, brings more near in sight Hope that grows to vision of my heart's delight.
Nearer seems to burn In the dawn's rekindling urn Flame of fragrant incense, hailing his return.
Louder seems each bird In the brightening branches heard Still to speak some ever more delightful word.