Her enchanted hair was the first gold, and still she sits, young while the earth is old. - Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Each hour until we meet is as a bird
That wings from far his gradual way along
The rustling covert of my soul.

We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps are stirr'd continually With prayer sent up to God; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud.

At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.