  FAINT smell of box In the evening air, Faint bleat of flocks From fields afar; On the gray rocks, The lap and lapse Of the wan water. The sunset fields Stretch fair and far. Mid the winrowed clouds The sickle moon Has clipt a star! Pale golden bloom! First flower of the night! It trembles down To the sunset streak, Light lost in light! In the pleached bower, In the garden old, Hand closed in hand, We sit together. We do not speak. A wind from the pine With fingers fine, Lays her warm hair Against my cheek. Sweet silent hour! As flower to flower Heart speaks to heart As star to star! Oh, hawthorn bower Oh, garden old How dear, how sad Your memories are! |
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