Though dew-prime flee,—mature at noonday, love defied
Chance, the wind, change, the rain: love strenuous all the more
For storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore,
Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain:
While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again.
Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might go
To grace another's ground: and then—the hopes we know,
The fears we keep in mind!—when, ours to arbitrate,
Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate.
Then, O the knotty point—white-night's work to revolve—