WHEN sitting softly, hand in hand,
Twilight unbars the gates of speech,
And whispered words sink deeplier down
Than daylight utterances can reach;--

A something yet remains to say,
Unspoken by the trembling tongue--
Thoughts which like summer lightning play,
Or music wandering after song.

Then kneeling, nestling, silently
I clasp you, darling, in my arms,
Dream of the face I cannot see,
And feel a thousand vague alarms,

Born equally in heart and brain,
Surge up, and fill my eyes with tears;
I count that heart not over-wise
Which cannot nurse a thousand fears.

'Children are fed on milk and praise,'
And love by love's communion lives,
By happy hours of happy days,
By what it takes and what it gives.

It does not grow by spoken word,
Nor it can spoken word express,
And vows which may its strength record,
Can neither make it more nor less.

But through a look, and in a tone,
And when my darling smiles on me,
I see the luminous shadow thrown,
Which curtains this great mystery.

A mystery which we shall not know
Till earth and stars have passed away;
And spiritual fires, which faintly glow,
Shall brighten into perfect day.