The Dark Night (XVIII)

The Dark Night (XVIII)
By May Sinclair – 1863-1946

Our love is woven
Of a thousand strands—
The cool fragrance of the first lilac
At morning,
The first dew on the grass,
The smell of wild mint in the wood,
The pungent and earthy smell of ground ivy crushed under our feet;
Songs of birds, songs of great poets;
The leaping of the red squirrel in the tree,
The running of the river,
The commotion of stars and clouds in the high winds at night;
And dark stillness.
It is adorned with all the flowers
That stand in our garden;
It holds the night and the day.

Our love is made
Of the South Wind and the West Wind,
And the soft falling of rain;
Of white April evenings;
It is made of trees,
And of the many-coloured fields on the hills;
Of horizons,
Dark sea-blue of the west, thin sky-blue of the east,
With a yellow road between.
The flames of sunset and sunrise
Mingle in the fire of our love.

May Sinclair, born Mary Amelia St. Clair on August 24, 1863, in Rock Ferry, Cheshire, England, was a novelist, short story writer, poet, critic, and suffragist. She was the author of many books, including The Combined Maze (Harper and Brothers, 1913), The Life and Death of Harriett Frean (The Macmillan Company, 1922),and Uncanny Stories (The Macmillan Company, 1923), a collection of ghost stories. She died on November 14, 1946.