And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew!

Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away!
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal!

Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good night!
Westward sinks thy golden car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!




III

The old Master was talking about a concert he had been to hear.--I don't
like your chopped music anyway. That woman--she had more sense in her
little finger than forty medical societies--Florence Nightingale--says
that the music you pour out is good for sick folks, and the music you
pound out isn't. Not that exactly, but something like it. I have been
to hear some music-pounding. It was a young woman, with as many white
muslin flounces round her as the planet Saturn has rings, that did it.