THE flower of silence opens in the sky ;

A moon enealmed, a poised and frozen song,

Has gained the zenith where the clouds go by

Un convoyed by the shadow-shape of wrong.

Half of twelve to usher midnight's chiming ;

Three yoked with three to harbinger new day ;

Between, un time fast silences are climbing

To the hilltop glint where golden Truth Beams play.

Emptied of time, this rift between two beats

Of the hammer, fate, upon mortality,—

This threshing-floor whereon our being meets

The living One who bears us, henceforth, free.