Chapter XX

When our clear garden lifted up its flow'rs
The self-accusations made by each
For failure of our love, broke into speech
In passionate hours;
And needed pardon offered and new peace
And explanations of our miseries
And tears that wet our sad and truthful eyes
Gave love increase.
But in these months of dreary rain
When all retires to earth again,
When even light is fain
To find its war with darkness vain,
No longer are our souls so strong and proud
That, rapturously, they should confess aloud.

In lowered voice our sins we say,
Though still in tenderness, not scorn;
But 'tis at twilight now and not at morn.
Sometimes we even count them, wrong by wrong,
Like things that one counts over
And puts away;
And their folly or their hurt to cover
We argue long.