Each hour until we meet is as a bird That wings from far his gradual way along The rustling covert of my soul.

And Love, our light at night and shade at noon, Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.

Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone, But as the meaning of all things that are.

Even as the moon grows queenlier in mid-space When the sky darkens, and her cloud-rapt car Thrills with intenser radiance from afar,- So lambent, lady, beams t…

You walk down the street at night. It's raining out. The only sound is that of your own feet. There are city sounds too, but these you don't hear because at th…

What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that swee…

O Mary, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour.