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Poem	Oh! let the passing hand knock with its futile fingers on the door; our hour is so unique, and the rest—what matters the rest with its futile fingers? Let dismal, tiresome joy keep to the road and pass on with its rattles in its hand. Let laughter swell and clatter and die away; let the crowd pass with its thousands of voices. The moment is so lovely with light in the garden about us; the moment is so rare with virgin light in our heart deep down in us. Everything tells us to expect nothing more from that which comes or passes, with tired songs and weary arms, on the roads, And to remain the meek who bless the day, even when night is before us barricaded with darkness, loving in ourselves above all else the idea that, gently, we conceive of our love.
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