A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed;
The rose at Mary's bosom dropped its petals, crushed.
No word profaned the peace of that glad giving,
But the warm dimness of the night stood still,
Drawing all beauty to the point of living,
There in the beech-tree's shadow on the hill.
Spirit to spirit murmured; mingling will
Made them one being; Time's decaying thought
Fell from them like a rag; it was the soul they sought.
The moonlight found an opening in the boughs;