VIII

As one who looks too long upon the sun

When he must turn to earth from flame-shot skies

Sees all else dark through his bereaved eyes,

And yet may watch the rainbow ribbons run

Athwart the gravity of gray and dun,

He holds the darkness dearer for the prize

Wherein his only pledge of radiance lies

When he the vast magnificence must shun.

So we who play with rainbows, having seen

The sun's own face. We may not hold the west,

Which burns against the bosom of the night,

But in the after-glow, with eyes serene,

We still may find, dear heart, the sun's bequest,

An echoed glory of our passionate light.