The Vestal

When all the other hours are drawn and grey,Spent by their little lusts of pride of gain,Sudden, like slim blue slivers of spring rain,Falls down the dusk ... and it is well with day.All the hard voices die, a thousand birdsWeave tenderness again in simple words,And like a fawn lies couchant on the skiesOne great bronze hill, raised up for weary eyes.Now there is silence in bewildered places,And secrets move once more through empty facesAs through the groves where a clear moon may riseTo claim once more her maiden sacrifice --The silver virgin, who begarlandedStands with the leaves of youth about her head --And awe is in the eyes that down the gladeWatch her move forward, taut and unafraid.