THOSE hours were good to us,
Like nuns with pity pale.
Sweet hours monotonous,
Drowning in mist, as does
A sister in her veil. Those smiles that had not, after,
The writhen lip of gall,
Were they not worth our laughter?
Dear, worse hours can befall
Than those in foggy pall. They went by sad and swathed,
As praying nuns do wind,
In gleams of opal bathed,
The gentle hours resigned. Our souls are sisters still
Of hours of autumn gray.
Their gloaming brought no chill,
But blurred our follies, till
Our hearts were hid away.