Chapter XII

This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit:
everything is calm and comforting this evening;
and the silence is such that you could hear the
falling of feathers.

This is the holy hour when gently the beloved
comes, like the breeze or smoke, most gently,
most slowly. At first, she says nothing--and I
listen; and I catch a glimpse of her soul, that
I hear wholly, shining and bursting forth; and I
kiss her on the eyes.

This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit, when
the acknowledgment of mutual love the whole day
long is brought forth from the depths of our deep
but transparent heart.

And we each tell the other of the simplest
things: the fruit gathered in the garden, the
flower that has opened between the green mosses;
and the thought that has sprung from some
sudden emotion at the memory of a faded word of
affection found at the bottom of an old drawer on
a letter of yesteryear.