Augusta Webster

* * *

DEAREST, this one day we own,
    Stolen from the crowd and press,
    Let it be sweet silence's.
We two, heart in heart, alone;
Any speech were less.

We are weary, even thus,
    Talk might turn to discontent
    Else be practised merriment:
Earth and sky will speak for us
Nearer as we meant.

We two in the stillness, dear,
    Fair dreams come without our quest;
    Not to talk of life is best.
Ah, our holiday is here,Let it all be rest.