When all the other hours are drawn and grey,
Spent by their little lusts of pride of gain,
Sudden, like slim blue slivers of spring rain,
Falls down the dusk . . . and it is well with day.
All the hard voices die, a thousand birds
Weave tenderness again in simple words,
And like a fawn lies couchant on the skies
One great bronze hill, raised up for weary eyes.
Now there is silence in bewildered places,
And secrets move once more through empty faces
As through the groves where a clear moon may rise
To claim once more her maiden sacrifice —
The silver virgin, who begarlanded
Stands with the leaves of youth about her head —
And awe is in the eyes that down the glade
Watch her move forward, taut and unafraid.