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When our clear garden lifted up its flow'rs The self-accusations made by each For failure of our love, broke into speech In passionate hours; And needed pardon offered and new peace And explanations of our miseries And tears that wet our sad and truthful eyes Gave love increase. But in these months of dreary rain When all retires to earth again, When even light is fain To find its war with darkness vain, No longer are our souls so strong and proud That, rapturously, they should confess aloud.

In lowered voice our sins we say, Though still in tenderness, not scorn; But 'tis at twilight now and not at morn. Sometimes we even count them, wrong by wrong, Like things that one counts over And puts away; And their folly or their hurt to cover We argue long.