VIII. ‘The rising deluges of circumstance’
The rising deluges of circumstance
Have flooded all the gardens of my dreams,
No more the inner sun of gladness gleams
Upon pale flowers of a lover’s trance.
Dear Love, I know not why this torrent seems
To drown in turbid billowings of chance
The blossoms of thy visioned countenance,
Soiling my richest thoughts with earthy streams.
The river of the world is ever strong,
I would that I could leave this doubtful shore,
And yet I linger, hoping that ere long
The swirling tide will crush my dreams no more.
And if my gardens ever bloom again,
How fair will be thy perfect blossom then!
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