Chapter IV

The night, unfolding, banishes the day;
The moon seems, in its long survey,
To brood upon the sleeping silences;
All the air is pure and clear,
Pure and pale afar and near,
And clear the waters in the friendly mead;
What agony is in the slow
And steady drip of water from a reed,
That sounds and then is hushed below!

But in my hands thy hands I hold;
Thy steadfast eyes enfold
Mine eyes; I see
Thy peace like purest water undefiled
By cloudy fear, undimmed by hovering wraith
Of doubt, and oh, I see
The perfect faith
That rests within us like a sleeping child.