Classic Poem

When bells
From their high towers
Chime over us,
My Love,
My Own,
I shiver for the passing hour flown,
The wing of Time
Scarce hovering
That bears us on.

Twelve — and, alas!
One — the shortest night!
Two — so soon the light?
Three — white pales the East,
Four — the shore of day in sight —
A shadow on the grass,
Alas!
Our night is gone —
My Love,
My Own,
Our shortest Summer night is flown.
But if apart,
Alone,
When bells
From their high towers
Ring over us
My Love,
My Own,
How otherwise their chiming salutations fall!
Each chime a knell of absence rung.

Twelve — and rejoice!
One — the longest night must pass!
Two — not yet the light?
Three — almost the day in sight —
Four — the heart of Time beats on —
For one less night
Rejoice!
The night is gone —
My Love,
My Own,
The longest Summer night is flown!