She comes not when Noon is on the roses— Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul till it reposes From work and play. But when Night is on the hi… - Herbert Trench

Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I,
Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief—
Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die
Mocking at all that passes their belief.

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, ...
Ye, vastest breathers of the air,
Shook down with slow and mighty poise
Your coolness on the human care,
Your wonder on its toys,
Your greenness on the heart's despair,
Your darkness on its noise.

But she, like sighing forests,
Stole on me—full of rest,
Her hair was like the sea's wave,
Whiteness was in her breast,—
(So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses.)