Classic Poem

This hour is satin. Draw it round you
Prayerfully. Wear it while you may.
Let it soothe a heart too quickly
Bruised by the sackcloth garb of day.

Pity that hands as frail as pollen
Should have grown in toil so rough
They dare not fill their ache with twilight,
Fearing to rend its filmy stuff.

Be not afraid. It is your hour,
Wistful and reticent like you.
Grief has no sorcery to ravel
Its gossamer of dusk and dew.

Dip your fingers in it. Gather
Its cool fragrance to your cheek.
If your eyes are tired, close them,
And do not speak.

Silence will blow, like dead leaves, over you.
Silence, like snow, will heap you high.
Who knows? Time, returning
To claim his gift, may pass you by.