And nothing rids us utterly of grief,
We who have pilgrim souls that will not sleep.
II
Moonlight planting the world with lilies, so hushed it seems and scented,
But in the chapel is a droning where the negroes chant their hymns
And we in aureoled loneliness go down the street contented,
With hearts that beat for pleasure to the rhythm of our limbs.
1917