WHEN spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odours sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.
She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;
I know I cannot win the race,
And at the end, I know, is death.
But joyfully I bare my limbs,
Anoint me with the tropic breeze,
And feel through every sinew thrill
The vigour of Hippomenes.
A race of love! We all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,
And cared not, when at last we lost,
For life, or death, or anything!
Maurice Thompson.
A SONG OF THANKSGIVING.
MY love is the flaming sword, to fight through the world;
Thy love is the shield to ward,
And the armour of the Lord,
And the banner of Heav’n unfurl’d.
Let my voice ring out, and over the earth,
Through all the grief and strife,
With a golden joy in a silver mirth,
Thank God for Life!
Let my voice swell out through the great abyss,
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss
Thank God for Love!
Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above,
The whole world through,
O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love,
Thank God for you!
James Thomson.