From the Book of Valentines

by Bliss Carman




When the morning wind comes up the mountain,
Stirring all the beech-groves of the valley,
And, before the paling stars have vanished,
The first tawny thrush disturbs the twilight
With his reed-pipe, eerie calm and golden—

The earth-music marvellous and olden— 

Then good fortune enters at my doorway, 
And my heart receives the guest called Gladness; 
For I know it is that day of summer 
When I shall behold your face ere nightfall, 


And this earth, as never yet in story, 
Ledge to hill-crest dyed in purple glory.

When the evening breath draws down the valley,
And the clove is full of dark blue shadows
Moving on the mountain-wall, just silvered

By the large moon lifted o'er the earth-rim,
At the moment of transported being,
When soul gathers what the eyes are seeing,

Sense is parted like a melted rain-mist, 
And our mortal spirits run together, 

Saying, "O incomparable comrade!" 
Saying, "O my lover, how good love is!" 
Then the twilight falls; the hill-wind hushes; 
Note by note once more the cool-voiced thrushes.