AFTER Many Y EARS

A GAIN on a bow, softly plunging
Under the wide star-drift,
We watch the white foam part and pass,
While the wind blows like a gift
Of a spirit somewhere east of the night
Into our hearts benign
With a sense that however the world is made
Love can only make it divine.

Two meteors sink, sad, to the sea,
Like lovers going to death,
A lone planet along their path
Leans, holding its breath.
Yet no dread from them drifts to us,
Who too one night must fall,
For it seems that however the world shall end
Love still will hold us thrall.