Sonnet.

A Sonnet.

The grass sleeps now; the air is crushed and still,
Between the gentle valley and the hills
The moon is fat; the stars are out and pale,
They cast dim lamps through midnight's cloudy veil.

The thyme's breath runs away beneath my feet,
Its scent is lost too quickly, wistful, sweet,
It drifts away to other, fairer, lands,
Beyond the sight of tender mortal man.

I often wonder whose hand made this all,
The heavens vaulted measurelessly tall.
Were these things made for Knights and Queens of old,
Who loved in splendour, passionate and bold?

Or was the night designed by greater powers,
As wrapping for a fragile love like ours?