Until Thou Comest

By George Sterling

Now down the twilight floats the evening star,
    As sinks within my soul the thought of thee,
    O pearl far vanished in a futile
O prisoner whom days unrisen bar!
Love, was thy holiness but made to mar,
    And all thy beauty given but to flee?
    Ah! darling! past my gaze thou waitest me,
For whose high soul my soul and worship are!

Now evening lies upon the western hill,
And thou art very distant from me still.
    The skies are made the turquoise court of day—
        The skies are made the sapphire court of night,
        And both are equal in my cheated sight,
    And each is bitter with our love's delay!

San Francisco.

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