His Lady Of The Sonnets XXIV

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I AM all gladness like a little child!
Grief's tragic figure of the veilèd face
Fades from my path, moving with measured pace
Back from the splendour that breaks on the wild,
High hills of sorrow, where the storm-clouds piled
In drift of tears. Lo! with what tender grace
Joy holds the world again in her embrace
Since you came forth, and looked on me, and smiled.

Down in the valley shines a scimiter–
A stream with autumn-gold deep damascened;
And of the bards of day one loiterer
Still lingers at his song, securely screened
By foliage. Dear, what miracle is this,
Transforming void and chaos with a kiss!

© Robert Norwood