Is Day long enough for quarrelling, lad?
There are only twelve of her burnished hours;
There is only one morning, fresh and fair,
Where the palm trees swing in the dew-washed air
O'er heads of the mauve hydrangea flowers,
One dreamy evening, bloom-filled and sweet,
Is Day long enough for quarrelling, lad?
Is Night long enough for quarrelling, lad?
The dwindled stars of the Milky Way
Show the path that our souls shall someday wing,
And the time between is a little thing.
Ere Night sinks conquered by burning Day.
Does the Cosmea turn from the firefly's kiss?
Oh! the dear blind dark is not meant for this!
Is Night long enough for quarrelling, lad?
Is Life long enough for quarrelling, lad?
Ah! I know the sweep of a changing sea,
It is dotted with islands patterned green,
With the sand-spits stretching like arms between.
They are always waiting for you and me,
(By the sun gem-circled, by storms lashed grey)
To divide To-morrow from Yesterday.
Is Life long enough for quarrelling, lad?
Is Love great enough for quarrelling, lad?
Will the gold not rust with the tear repressed?
Will the heart not shrink from the bitter word?
Will the soul not tire of reproaches heard?
The soul that has joyed in a love confessed,
Will the long, warm clasp where the fingers fold,
Not too surely slacken, grow pulseless, cold?
Is Love great enough for quarrelling, lad?
First published in The Sunday Times, 19 September 1909
