Choice In No Choice.
I know not which to love the more:
The morning, with its liquid light;
Or evening, with its tender lore
Of silver lake and purple height.
To morn I say, “The fairer thou:
For when thy beauties melt away,
'Tis but to breathe on heart and brow
The gladness of the perfect day.”
And o'er the water falls a hue
That cannot sate a poet's eye:
As though Our Lady's mantle threw
Its shadow there—and not the sky.
But when has glared the torrid-noon,
And afternoon is gasping low,
The sunset brings a sweeter boon
Than ever graced the orient's glow.
And I: “As old wine unto new,
Art thou to morn, belovèd eve!
And what if dies thy every hue
In blankest night? We may not grieve.
“Thy fading lulls us as we dote.
Nor always blank the genial night:
For when the moon is well afloat,
Thou mellowest into amber light.”
Is each, then, fairer in its turn?
'Tis hence the music. Not for me
To wish a dayless morn, or yearn
For nightless eve—if these could be.
But give me both—the new, the old:
And let my spirit sip the wine
From silver now, and now from gold:
'Tis wine alike—alike divine!
Lake George, July, 1872.