The spindle flew, and on her mouth his kiss.
From off the sill the silent doves
Shook out and tumbled, flung and wheeled
Through all the gathered stillnesses,
And all the air, and far beneath,
Their doubled and snow-shadowed race.
At dusk a quiet, a felt peace,
The great moon thickened on the rooves.
Upon the pane leaf shadow still,
The deep wood, all its fastnesses.
And a pure, silent, secret breath,
The close wings folded in each place.