“Oh, hush!” you said; “oh, hush!” The twilight hung Between us and the world; but in your face, Flooding with warm inner light, the sovereign grace Of one who rests the brooding trees among—
Of one who steps down from a lofty throne, Seeking that peace the sceptre cannot call; And leaving courtier, page, and seneschal, Goes down the lane of sycamores alone;
And, going, listens to the notes that swell From golden throats—stories of ardent days, And lovers in fair vales; and homing bell:
And the sweet theme unbearable, she prays The song-bird cease! So, on the tale I dare, Your “hush!” your wistful “hush!” broke like prayer.