The Silence of Love

The poise of your small head, how proud it seems; How sad your great dark eyes; and your mouth's bow Has such a petulant disdainful pout, As though it wearied of the ebb and flow Of life within the soul where shapes of dreams In endless long processions come and go, And all the tumult of the world without. Slowly about us the grave dusk is shed, Behind us as we stand the frost-stung fire Flames up and fills the room with dancing light, Speech is not, but in silence I aspire To praise you in a song unsung, unsaid, A dream song faint with sorrow and desire Of music made, and memory, and delight.