IT is the hour when Arno turns Her gold to chrysoprase; When each low-hanging star outburns Its faint, mysterious rays, As from the prison of faery urns Which faery hands upraise. It is the hour when life's constraint A moment's ease is given; When Earth is like a holy saint, Stilled, sanctified, and shriven, And the deep-breathing heart grows faint To be so near to Heaven. |