But in the quietness there seemed to grow
A sympathetic mood, and we to look,
As through glass, into each other’s mind,
Calm reading, while our thoughts and feelings verged
In a soft sadness to one common point.
Then low I spoke:—“Were it not sweet and well
To die from out this chaos of a life
Into the waiting dark, and leave our toil
To stronger minds and hands? To spurn the clay,
And mount the crystal air in spiral gyre,