Sunday Sonnet

I. BEFORE
by Hugh Cuthbert


All the world was Eden once, you know,
And Paradise was ours everywhere;
No jealous hedge joy's limits to declare,
No sullen wall our Garden-bounds to show;
No thorns did then beneath the roses grow,
And winter's blast was as a dream-love's kiss--
A lightsome rapture; every task a bliss
Sweet-laden as the air where lilies blow.
For I was all of Eden to you then,
And you were all of Paradise to me,
And each in other all the world were we,
Till, drenched in golden love-light, we again
Love-lavish, flung its spell o'er everything,
And Nature's self lay 'witched within the ring.