Less a time than a place, somewhere

Neither ended nor yet quite begun,

An hour of calm and quiet, as though

Busy hands have folded after the work

Of a hard day, or in the daily prayer

For enduring what is yet to be done;

The hour when nothing moves nor

Seems even to breathe, and the sky

Almost begins to blush like a girl

Who sees on your face the dream

You embraced, rose into, cried out;

The long longing moment after, slow  

Awakening into the light and the dark.