In the June Twilight

In the June twilight, starless and profound.
She sits, and of the twilight seems a part.
No birds sing now, nor is there any sound
Of wind among the leaves: faintly you hear
The distant beating of the city's heart;
It doth not break the spell nor vex the ear,
But seems to make the silence yet more deep,
As though some giant whispered in his sleep.
Sometimes from little gardens lying round,
A voice calls through the evening; or you catch
The sound of opening windows, or a latch
Rais'd stealthily beneath, by those who keep
Love's trists, that often are too bitter found.
And lo! one sits beside her; does she know
How the least tone of hers, the slightest noise
Of soft, stirr'd raiment sets his heart aglow?
Yea, does she see how all the soul of him
Yearns to her in his look and in his voice?
Their faces in the failing light are dim;
And now to ease his heart a little space,
He tells her songs, that Love, with sovereign grace.
Has given him to sing of her; that so,
When Time, grown weary, casts his soul away
As a thing wholly done with, men shall say,
"How this man loved, and she his verses praise —
Such women come not twice God's grace to show!"
And now he ceases; and the common things
Of outer life go on: she does not move;
Her soul is full of mystic whisperings.
Is this heart hers, to do with as she wills?
But men as well as women can feign love,
Or deem that love which time too quickly kills.
Has she, then, kindled in this man the fire
That only with his being can expire?
And starts he, when she looks at him, and springs
The violent blood through each dilating vein
When her hand touches his? Can love be pain?
Can love unloving hearts with love inspire,
And is her love the heaven of which he sings?