"The Quiet Hour" by Jonathan David

The Quiet Hour
by Jonathan David

When the hour is hushed and you lie still,
So quiet is the room about me
It seems perhaps that you are gone,
Sunken to a marble sleep.

I hear no sound; my quiet will,
Passive as the lambs at rest,
Stirs not the quaint forgetfulness
But only murmurs, “Sleep is strange!”

The low moon at the lattice going
Rests no more quietly than you at peace.
Hushed is the candle; the hour is late,
And I, poor witness of extreme change,

I think perhaps then heaven opens
Like the unfolding of your hand in sleep—
Your cold white hand—to close again—
While I sit staring at the marble gate.





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