This tryst of ours no one has sung;
Of song bereft has grief then waned.
Cool summer has old warmth disdained,
As if a new life has begun.
The sky seems but a stone-set vault,
By golden flames so wounded red;
More than I need my daily bread,
A single word this sky I fault.
My soul enliven with your words,
O you beneath the dew-swept sun:
Not out of passion, not for fun,
But for great love while on this earth.