fills it.
Birth is but a folding of our wings.
When bees, in honey-frenzies, rage and rage,
And their hot dainty wars with flowers wage,
Foraying in the woods for sweet rapine
And spreading odorous havoc o'er the green.
All men are pearl-divers, and we have but plunged down into this straggling salt-sea of Life—to find a pearl. This Pearl, like all others, comes from a wound: it is the Pearl of Love after Grief.
It is always sunrise and always sunset somewhere on the earth. And so, with a silver sunrise before him and a golden sunset behind him, the Royal Sun fares through Heaven, like a king with a herald and a retinue.
Night's a black-haired poet, and he's in love with Day. But he never meets her save at early morn and late eve, when they fall into each other's arms and draw out a lingering kiss: so folded together at such times that we cannot distinguish bright maid from dark lover; and so we call it Dawn and Twilight—it being
Not light, but lustrous dark;