The curtains now are drawn

The curtains now are drawn,

And the spindrift strikes the glass,

Blown up the jagged pass

By the surly salt sou'-west,

And the sneering glare is gone

Behind the yonder crest,

While she sings to me:

"O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,

And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,

And death may come, but loving is divine."

I stand here in the rain,

With its smite upon her stone,

And the grasses that have grown

Over women, children, men,

And their texts that "Life is vain";

But I hear the notes as when

Once she sang to me:

"O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,

And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,

And death may come, but loving is divine."