Words for the Hour/Ade

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ADÉ.
A truce, a truce, a gallant truce!A hand flung up, and a shout of cheer;The toiling hand that has sped and spun   The labor of the year.
Farewell, ye turbulent hosts of rhyme,Whose wrangling wrought such ill-content,Farewell, ye beggarly broken lines,   A Falstaff regiment.
The sour and sweet I could not tasteTill ye had sat and drunk your fillThe life i bore was never mine,   But yours to waste at will.
Oh! yon, where the sunset's heart is warmA fair bird singeth, sorrow-free;I am his Sister belov'd, he says,   And, wistful, he waits for me.
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No bird of Juno's nor of Jove's,Nor Pallas, blinking thro' day-shut eyes;But a mate-dove, loving so faithfully,   That Love did make him wise.
And we will sit as on burnished gold,The earth-ball rolling at our feet,And whisper of things which, had they been,   Had been for song too sweet.
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