The Sun is Ripe

She kindles love, a river blue; and softest eyes, a watchful
Tear. We volt ever and anon; and speak the unspoken. Her
Soul: it beckons love; and I gallop—a windless field. We
Whittle love: a lover’s name; and pant the brooks: a lover’s

Flame; and now and then, the sun is ripe; and turn of 
Thought: our love appears. Such a dream, a fancy fair: the
Flares of love: a fevered air; and fallen kiss, a tortured fane;
For love is bound, and nearly bane. So much to live—the

Lamp of light; and lover’s die—the wrongs of right; and
Rightly wrong, a splintered love; but wrongly right, a heated
Love; and heart to burn, the sun is ripe: a mystic fruit: the
Wings of life; but sign and seal, a mortal curse: a temper ill:
A lover’s hearse; and watchful eyes, an almond dove: the
Fangs of life: the flames of love.