Classic Poem

Evenings of beatitude,
even the book forgotten,
because the soul dissolves
lapped in quietude.

Evenings when every
sound lies sleeping.

Evenings when the least
seem anaesthetized,
all the garden flowers,
shadow more shadowy
and the old manor more deserted.

Evenings when the least
creak of furniture
were a profanation
of absurd cacophony
and impious intrusion.

Evenings when the house's
door is fast closed
and the soul's open.

Evenings when the quiet
vane on the steeple
turns, numbed, no more,
and, entire like perfume,
silence is inbreathed.