This night first have I learn’d to prize thy boon,

I stranger and thou stranger, widow’d moon:

this night we have met, wandering, and thou couldst
charm

sick brain and heart from all their burning harm;

white Lethe drown’d the world of dusty woe.

And I might feel that somewhere past its flow,

Eden, not all unmindful of my days,

had changed, an hour, to quiet hanging sprays

and uncrush’d beds of blossom, dusky-white,

that ooze with sleep and healing on the night.

JAN. 1905