A Septennial


Seven times has Saturn swung his scythe;
      Seven sheaves stand in the field of Time,
And every sheaf’s as bright and blithe
      As the sharp shifts of our sublime
Father the Sun. I leap so lithe
            For love to-day,
            My love, I may
      Not tell the tithe.

“But these were seven stormy years!”
      “Lean years were these, as Pharaoh’s kine!”
All shapes of Life that mortal fears
      Passed shrieking. We distilled to wine
The vintages of blood and tears.
            We tore away
            The cloak of gray —
      The sun uprears!

We know to-day what once we guessed,
      Our love no dream of idle youth;
A world-egg, with the stars for nest,
      Is this arch-testament of truth.
Laylah, beloved, to my breast!
            Our period
            Is fixed in God —
      Eternal rest!

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