Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept
Stealthily round us,--as the incoming tide
Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on
Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.

Or out on the green hillside, even there
There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.
For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill
With wondrous echoes all the waiting air.
We listen, and in listening must forget
Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;

Even our joys,--thou knowest;--when the air
Is full to overflowing with the sense
Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.
There is no place for words; we do not dare
To break Love's stillness, even though the power
Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.

But here in quietness I can recall
All I would tell thee, how thou art to me
Impulse and inspiration, and with thee
I can but smile though all my idols fall.
I wait my meed as others who have known
Patience till to their utmost stature grown.

As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray
And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest
A glory fills the tender, troubled West
That glads the closing of November's day,