Pausing by gate or stile, a pair
Loitered a bit on the threshold’s stone
For a sweet and fond good-night of their own.
It irks me, friend, that I must profane
The oath of the order and voice that chain
Of mystic letters: yet ’twere not kind
To take you thus far and leave you blind.
And I’ll whisper, you know, just heart to heart,
’Twas “One Kind Kiss Before We Part,”
The mystic grip was a warm hand-press,