Each hour until we meet is as a bird <br />That wings from far his gradual way along <br />The rustling covert of my soul,—his song <br />Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr'd: <br />But at the hour of meeting, a clear word <br />Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue; <br />Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers wrong <br />Full oft through our contending joys unheard. <br />What of that hour at last, when for her sake <br />No wing may fly to me nor song may flow; <br />When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know <br />The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake, <br />And think how she, far from me, with like eyes <br />Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies?<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxv-winged-hours/
