The city's sprawled, uneasy bulk
Illumines slowly in my sight.
The crowded roofs, the common walls,
The grey streets, melt in mystic light.
It passes. Then, with longing sore
For that veiled light of paradise,
I turn my face,—and find it in
The wonder of your waking eyes.
THE HOUR OF MOST DESIRE
It is not in the day
That I desire you most,
Turning to seek your smile
For solace or for joy.
Nor is it in the dark,
When I toss restlessly,
Groping to find your face,
Half waking, half in dream.
It is not while I work,—
When, to endear success,
Or rob defeat of pain,
I weary for your hands.
Nor while from work I rest,
And rest is all unrest
For lack of your dear voice,
Your laughter, and your lips.
But every hour it is
That I desire you most,—
Need you in all my life
And every breath I breathe.