Xii

It is the pleasant hour when lamps are lit; Calmness and consolation over all; The silences so deep that one could hear A feather fall.

It is the hour when the belovèd comes, Like to the sweetly soft and low Wandering mist upon the breeze, Sweetly slow. She speaks no word at first--and yet I hark, Hark to the soul of her, surprise Its gleam and dark, And then I kiss her eyes.

It is the pleasant hour when lamps are lit, The vow To love each other through the live-long day From depths of heart made luminous by it. Is with us now.

And then we speak of simple things; The fruit we gathered in the close, The flowers that disclose, Between the verdant mosses thick, Their almost wings;

And thought does blossom forth once more At memory of a word so fair Hid in a just remembered drawer, In a letter of last year.