The Ribbon

Ah, dearest, dearest, not alone
I face the day's white monotone.
The fair, bright ribbon of the hours--
A mountain brook bestead through flowers--
Runs, a dear line, from you to you.
There is no smallest deed I do
Through which the ribbon does not run,
A silver string to pearls of sun.
So glad I watch the moments fly
Across the high-hung summer sky,
Till in a radiant flame they burn,
To mark the hour of your return.