Love Desolate

By George Sterling

So still and fragrant is the wood, O Sweet,
    I well could deem thy gracious presence near!
    Ah! God! an instant to behold thee here,
O beautiful, O goddess far and fleet!—
Thou in whose face the lures of legend meet,
    Thou in whose voice the lyres of old are clear,
    Who makest pain a joy, and sorrow dear,
And, by thine advent, Paradise complete!

Alas thy voice! its echo from the thrush
    Makes sad the tender silence following.
Alas thy face! for now the woodland hush
        Creeps to my heart, which, hopeless, seems to say:
    "She whom thou lovest is a vanished thing,
        A rose withdrawn, a planet lost in day."


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