We trekked into a far country, / My friend and I. / Our deeper content was never spoken, / But each knew all the other said. / He told me how calm his soul was laid / By the lack of anvil and strife. / “The wooing kestrel,” I said, “mutes his mating-note / To please the harmony of this sweet silence.” / And when at the day’s end / We laid tired bodies ’gainst / The loose warm sands, / And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; / When star after star came out / To guard their lovers in oblivion— / My soul so leapt that my evening prayer / Stole my morning song!