  It was not in the lovely morning time When dew lies bright on silent meadow-ways; It was not in the splendid noon's high prime, When all the lawns with sunlight are ablaze; But in the tender twilight—ere the light Of the broad moon made beautiful the night. It was not in the freshness of my youth, Nor when my manhood laughed in perfect power, That first I tasted of immortal truth And plucked the buds of the immortal flower. But when my life had passed its noon, I found The path that leads to the enchanted ground. It was not love nor passion that made dear That hour now memorable to us two; Nothing was said the whole world might not hear, Only—our souls touched, and for me and you, Trees, flowers and sunshine, and the hearts of men, Are better to be understood since then. E. Nesbit. |
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