By George Sterling

Soon come the winter days, when white Altair
    Spreads wings above the sunset. Soon the snow,
    A fleeting seed the twilight heavens sow,
Descends from frigid levels of the air;
Chill grow the evenings we were born to share,
    And mute the hours wherein our souls might grow.
    Ah! make not Death our passion's afterglow.
Nor mix my final worship with despair!

Come soon, for soon- a night is- on our years,
    And soon the kissing lips have dust to taste!
        Love! I await thee with my flesh a flame.
Oh! breast to breast, and mouths a-salt with tears
    Of rending bliss, soon let us lie! Make haste!
        For music's heart is holy with thy name!

Glen Ellen.

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