In lowered voice our sins we say, Though still in tenderness, not scorn; But 'tis at twilight now and not at morn. Sometimes we even count them, wrong by wrong, Like things that one counts over And puts away; And their folly or their hurt to cover We argue long. XXI With withered hands I touch your brow And part your hair and kiss--(as the day dies And you are briefly sleeping by the hearth) Beneath long lashes hid, your fervent eyes. Oh the dear tenderness of sinking day! I think of the long years whose flight we saw, And suddenly your life in them appears So perfect that my love is filled with awe. And as in that time when we were betrothed, Ardour again is in me and has brought Desire to kneel and touch your beating breast With fingers that are chaste as is my thought. XXII Our hearts once burned in joyous days With love as luminous as high, But age to-day has made us weak With faults we dare deny. Thou dost not nourish us, oh will, By thine ardour in the strife, But soft benevolence alone Colours now our life. We near thy brink of setting, Love, And try to hide our frailty's pain In banal words and poor discourse Of wisdom slow and vain. How sad the future then would be, If when our days grow wintrier There flame not forth the memory Of the proud souls we were. XXIII This wrinkled winter when the ruined sun Founders in the west and sinks below, I love to say your name, so grave and slow, While the clock strikes another day now done. And saying it so ravishes my voice That from my lips it sinks into my heart, And among all sweet words that there have part, Makes me the most ardently rejoice. And in the wind of dawn or evening's breath Changeless I reiterate the theme; Oh, think with what a passion, strong, supreme, Shall I pronounce it at the hour of death! XXIV Perhaps, On my last day, Perhaps, Across my window sill, The sunlight frail and still Will fall and for a moment stay.... My hands--my hands then poor and witherèd-- By its glory will be made to gold; Slowly its kiss will glide, profound and bright, For the last time upon my mouth and head; And the flowers of my eyes, pale yet bold, Before they close, shall render back its light. Sun, I loved your strength and clarity, indeed! My sweet and fiery poems at their height Have held you captive in the heart of them; Like field of wheat that surges in the might Of summer wind my words exalted you. Oh sun, who bring to birth and flower the stem, Oh immense friend, of whom our pride has need, In that so grave, imperious hour and new, When my old heart sadly endures the test, Be you still its witness and its guest! XXV