In this Soft Hour,
By which Light, no Shadows fall
To Kiss the Silver Moonlight of my sorrow.
Alone, tis naught but my own Memory which Speaks,
Of Days long past that lie in Wait before me,
Yet by this Hollow Light,
Which Shimmers like true Spectres of the Silken darkness,
And Dances in bleak jibes before me,
This Heart and this Fair Memory Cries out in wails and sobs like Fair Hecuba.
Waiting, Thus,
In this Soft Hour,
By which no Light claims the weakness of my Heart,
I tarry ‘neath the Glimmer of one failing candle
And call out,
Out into the shifting tides of murky darkness swimming hence before me,
Gilded by the Glamour of far distant Lights,
Like Memories peering down from Sweetest Heaven,
And Pierce this empty vale with acutest Hearing,
Longing for the Nearer Sound of Your Fair Voice,
Than how it Sings but…