The coming of thy veiled face;
And in the fragrant night's eclipse
The kisses of thy deathless lips,
Like strange star-pulses, throbbed through space!
Whether it is drear November and
But winds foreboding fill the desolate night
And die at dawning down wild woodland ways,
or in May "couched in cool shadow" he hears
The bee-throngs murmurous in the golden fern,
The wood-doves veiled by depths of flickering green,