En sourdine


Becalmed in the half-light
Which the high branches create,
Let us probe deeply our love
Of this profound silence;

Let us merge our souls, our hearts
And our enraptured senses
Within the shadowy langours
Of the pine and the arbutus;

Half-close your eyes,
Fold your arms on your breast,
And from your sleeping heart
Drive out for ever all sense of purpose.

Let us be swayed
By the sweet, rocking breeze
Which flutes the waves
Of russet grass at your feet.

And when evening falls
Solemnly from the black oaks,
The voice of our despair,
The nightingale, will sing.