We trekked into a far country,My friend and I.Our deeper content was never spoken,But each knew all the other said.He told me how calm his soul was laidBy the lack of anvil and strife.“The wooing kestrel,” I said, “mutes his mating-noteTo please the harmony of this sweet silence.”And when at the day’s endWe laid tired bodies ’gainstThe loose warm sands,And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet;When star after star came outTo guard their lovers in oblivion —My soul so leapt that my evening prayerStole my morning song!