By George Sterling

Darling, the wild, inexorable hour
    Came suddenly to birth, a bitter tear
    Upon the face of that enchanted Year
That made but not thy heart my holy dower
And mine thy fane forever.    By its power
    The face that God hath made so very dear
    Is now a star on heavens remote and clear
And in my soul the one and perfect flower.

The thought of thee is silence to my pain;
    The thought of thee is pain and fiery wings
        That lift me to the skies of Love my lord.
What purity upon thy brow hath lain,
    And on thy lips what hint of wordless things!
        How beautiful! Thou dearest! Thou adored!

Written in Chicago.

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