Finis

My lady has no heart in her for love:
Her soul can understand the mountain's peace,
And the blue quiet of the summer seas,
Or scented warmth of the dim, thick-leaved grove
That hears the low lament of one lone dove;
But when the skies grow black and winds increase.
And rains and sudden lightnings charge the trees,
And seas at length in strife begin to move, —

She joyless stands, amid the flame and noise
Of storms that rend the night and lift the main;
Her griefs are pale, and flameless all her joys:
How should she know, then, love's great bliss and
bane?
O love! has all my singing been in vain?
My songs are ended; hast thou heard no voice?