That the fierce beauty of the noonday sun
Bears to the calm of a soft summer’s eve.
It nerves the wearied mortal with hot life,
And bathes his soul in hazy happiness.
The richest man is poor who hath it not,
And he who hath it laughs at poverty.
It hath no conqueror. When death himself
Has worked his very worst, this love of theirs
Lives still upon the loved one’s memory.
It is a strange enchantment, which invests