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Brief then are the moments of silence and shade,
Still flickers the torch just inverted by Quelling,
When clear the birds' matin-song swells from the glade,
The fire glows again, held aloft by blithe Delling.
It chanced at this sweetest of seasons, more praised.
More sung by the poets than ever another.
The watchers, star-crowned, once too earnestly gazed,
Too long, in the clear, deep, brown eyes of each other.
When Delling reached forth for the languishing flame,
He pressed the white hand that the maiden extended,
Then forward he stooped, and his ruddy lips came
Nigh hers and more nigh, till in kisses they blended.
On Quelling's soft cheek burneth crimson a blush,
Till, skyward reflected, it reaches the zenith ;
There mirrored, the fire of the youth meets the flush,
As over her beauty still fondly he leaneth.
