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Poem	Lo, it is dark, Save for the crystal spark Of a virgin star o'er the purpling lea, Or the fine, keen, silvery grace of a young Moon that is hung O'er the priest-like firs by the sea; Lo, it is still, Save for the wind of the hill, And the luring, primeval sounds that fill The moist and scented air 'Tis the truce o' night, away with unrest and care! Now we may forget Love's fever and hate's fret, Forget to-morrow and yesterday; And the hopes we buried in musky gloom Will come out of their tomb, Warm and poignant and gay; We may wander wide, With only a wish for a guide, By heath and pool where the Little Folk bide, We may share in fairy mirth, And partake once more in the happy thoughts of earth. Lo, we may rest Here on her cradling breast In the wonderful time of the truce o' night, And sweet things that happened long ago, Softly and slow, Will creep back to us in delight; And our dreams may be Compact of young melody, Just such as under the Eden Tree, 'Mid the seraphim's lullabies, Eve's might have been ere banished from Paradise.
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