Herbert Trench

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, ... Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart's despair, Your darkness on its noise.

But she, like sighing forests, Stole on me—full of rest, Her hair was like the sea's wave, Whiteness was in her breast,— (So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses.)

She comes not when Noon is on the roses— Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul till it reposes From work and play. But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices Roll in from Sea, By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight …

Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief— Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die Mocking at all that passes their belief.