Yea, it is noon, high noon in all the land.
The young wind slumbers; all the little birds
That sang about us in the fields of morn
Are songless now; no happy flight of words
On Love's lip hovers--Love has waxed to noon.
Ah, God, if Love should wane to evening soon
To perish in a sunless world, forlorn,
And cease with the last song of weary birds!
3.
At dawn I gathered flowers of white,