Her thoughts of him such tender colour took
As western skies that keep the afterglow.
The words he spoke were with her till she died.
TRIUMPH
This windy sunlit morning after rain,
The wet bright laurel laughs with beckoning gleam
In the blown wood, whence breaks the wild white stream
Rushing and flashing, glorying in its gain;
Nor swerves nor parts, but with a swift disdain