Oh! let the passing hand knock with its futile
fingers on the door; our hour is so unique, and
the rest--what matters the rest with its futile
fingers?
Let dismal, tiresome joy keep to the road and
pass on with its rattles in its hand.
Let laughter swell and clatter and die away; let
the crowd pass with its thousands of voices.
The moment is so lovely with light in the garden
about us; the moment is so rare with virgin light
in our heart deep down in us.
Everything tells us to expect nothing more from
that which comes or passes, with tired songs and
weary arms, on the roads,
And to remain the meek who bless the day, even
when night is before us barricaded with darkness,
loving in ourselves above all else the idea that,
gently, we conceive of our love.