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.
Augusta Davies Webster
