LXIV

WHEN the red sun sinks toward the western line, That separates our vision of the sky, And each soft ray far from the earth would fly, To touch the clouds above the salt sea-brine With magic tones and colors half divine; Then doth my soul seek thine alone, and try These tears of disappointed love to dry, Imagining that life on me doth shine. Then in the clouds, o’er Love’s blue sky, reflecting The golden radiance of thyself, I see Some likeness to the blood-stains on my heart, That thou hast pierced and wounded, while rejecting The sunbeams of my spirit, given to thee, That hold thy glory, even as we part.