Winged Hours

Each hour until we meet is a bird
That wings from far his gradual way along
The rustling covert of my soul, -his song
Still loudlier trilled through the leaves more deeply stirr'd:
But at the hour of meeting, a clear word
Is every note he sings, in Love's own tounge;
Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers wrong,
Full oft our contending joys unheard.

What of that hour at last, when for his sake
No wing may fly to me nor song may flow;
When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know
The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake,
And think how he, far from me, with like eyes
Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti