RICHARD
BUXTON .
SONNET.
DEAREST,
if the
touch
of
common
things
Can taint our
love
or wither , let
it die .
The
fre'
est
hearted
lark
that
soars
and
sings
Soon
after
dawn amid
a
dew
-
brushed
sky
Takes song
from
love and knows well where love lies
,
Hid
in
the grass
,"
the dear
domestic
nest
,
The secret
,
splendid
,
common
paradise
.
The
strangest
joys are not the
loveliest
:
Passion
far
-
sought
is
dead
when
it
is
found
,
But love that
's
born
of
intimate
common
things
Cries
with
a
voice
of
splendour
,
with
a
sound
That
over
stranger
feeling
shakes
and
rings
.
The
better
love
,
the
higher
ecstasy
Lie
in
the intimate
touch
of
you
and
me
.
*
SONG
.
M
Y
heart
is
like
a
meadow
!
Where
clouds
go
over
,
Dappling
the mingled
grass
and
clover
With
mingled
sun
and
shadow
,
With
light that will not
stay
And
shade
that sails away
.