It is one thing to spot a blooming gift,
And quite removed to drink that drunken glaze;
Yet it is so that every passing day
Doth teach us treasure what we have. So, swift!—
The year’s at end—and fallen are the leaves
That hid mine eyes. Then I can gladly say
That I have spot that growing interplay
Of shared delights and times of parting’s grief…
It is in morning that we hope for dusk,
And fete this present tied to aching pasts.
The Moon races along; she sings for us!
The heavens turn to rain our starry dust.
This joy I find, I wish to you as thine.
My shepherdess, my butterfly—be mine!