Only - but this is rare - when a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, when our world-deafened ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed - a bolt is shot back
Somewhere in our breast, and a lost pulse of feeling stirs again;
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, and what we mean, we say,
And what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow.
