The Love-Hour

cityurban

Where may she of the hall bedroom hold the love-hour?
In what sweet privacy find her soul before the face of the belovéd?
And the kiss that lifts her from the noise of the shop,
And the bitter carelessness of the streets?
Neither is there garden nor secret parlor for her:
And cruel winter has spoiled the shores of the sea;
The benches in the park are laden with melting snow,
And the bedroom forbidden...

But ah, the love of a woman! She will not be cheated!
Up the stoop she went to the vestibule of the house,
And beckoned to me to come to that darkness of doors:
Here in a crevice of the public city the love-hour was spent...

Outside rumbled the cars between drifts of the gas-lit snow,
And the footsteps fell of the wanderers in the night...
Within, the dark house slept...
But we, in our little cave, stood, and saw in the gleaming dark
Shine of each other’s eyes, and the flutter of wisps of hair,
And our words were breathlessly sweet, and our kisses silent...

carsoundnightsnow

Where is there rose-garden,
Where is there balcony among the cedars and pines,
Where is there moonlit clearing in the dumb wilderness,
Enchanted as this doorway, dark in the glare of the city?