Iv

The night, unfolding, banishes the day; The moon seems, in its long survey, To brood upon the sleeping silences; All the air is pure and clear, Pure and pale afar and near, And clear the waters in the friendly mead; What agony is in the slow And steady drip of water from a reed, That sounds and then is hushed below!

But in my hands thy hands I hold; Thy steadfast eyes enfold Mine eyes; I see Thy peace like purest water undefiled By cloudy fear, undimmed by hovering wraith Of doubt, and oh, I see The perfect faith That rests within us like a sleeping child.