Silent Hour

Clark Ashton Smith

In this drear interim
Of days disconsolate, remote from thee,
Surely it were enough of happiness
To sit once more beside thee, and to see
Thy patient lingers press
The clay whereon, still inchoate and dim,
Wavers the face of some fair satyress,
Or dancer's form, or goddess revenant
From deep antiquity;
To watch throughout the sunned or lamplit hour
Thy tireless toil intent—
Speaking no word, while on my heart again
Full-tided love draws back in every vein
Like a dark sea through caverns refluent;
But deepens still the fountains of its power.
Thus, thus to wait, with eyes
That love thy drooping hair, thy bended brow,
Till the hour becomes an everlasting Now;
Till all the silence opens into flower—
Till some great rose of wonder and surprise
In secret, sudden bloom
With magic fragrance overbrims the room.

Printed from: www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/505
Printed on: November 19, 2017