Элис Хант Бартлетт (Alice Hunt Bartlett)

Celebrants

Of lover’s partings breathes this vibrant hour,
Through amber air the golden leaves float down,
A tender silence wraps us close; the town
Lies soft in gauzy distance from this bower,
Where autumn’s pregnant peril seems to dower
With gift of death a waiting world . . . the crown!
My own, in your dear arms here would I drown,
Ere withered falls the promise of love’s flower.

While all the lovers of the years, our friends,
Clasp fondly with us here their wistful hands,
Around us, mystically set, extends
Enchanted ground, which only he who understands
The precious gift of love may tread . . . as bends
An azure sky o’er gold and russet lands.

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