Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck’d in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is a pleasant place—
And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!”
“But here the place is better than your song’s. For She is here.”
Mildred laughs at my words.
“What has this place to do with the song? That is dawn. This is night.”
“Perhaps the dawn is coming,” Philip says.