WHEN the toils of the day are over and the sun has sunk: in the west,
And my lips are tired of laughter, and my heart is heavy for rest,
I will sit awhile in the shadows, till Our Lady of Darkness shall shed
The healing balms of her silence and her dreams upon my head.
Ye seek in vain in your temples–she dwells not in aisles of stone;
Apart, and at peace, and silent, she waits in the night alone.
Her eyes are as moonlit waters, her brows with the stars are bound,
And her footsteps move to music, but no man has heard the sound.
No incense burns at her altar–at her shrine no lamplight gleams,
But she guards the Fountains of Quiet, and she keeps the key of Dreams,
And I will sit in the shadows and pray her, of her grace,
To open her guarded visions and grant me to dream of your face.
I ask not to break the silence, but only that you shall stand,
As oft you stood in the old-time, with your hand upon my hand;
So I will sit very quiet, that Our Lady of Darkness may shed
Her balms of healing and silence and of dreams upon my head.
