Ernest Myers (1844–1921)

O SURELY surely life is fair,

And surely surely hearts are true;

Be witness, balm of April air,

And boundless depth of midnight blue.

The trouble of an hour ago,

That seem’d to gather round our way,

Is vanish’d as the last-year snow

That hid the hills of Fesole.

And softly still the moonlight falls,

O love, and makes for thee and me

An Eden ’mid the bay-leaf walls,

The fragrant bowers of Boboli.

How gently o’er our spirits move

The golden hours we fear’d would die!

The very flame that threaten’d Love

Has lent us light to see him by.