I.The lights are out，and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jestsTo celebrate the Hanging of the CraneIn the new house，into the night are goneBut still the fire upon the hearth burns on，And I alone remain.
O fortunate，O happy day，When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth，Like a new star just sprung to birth，And roll‘d on its harmonious wayInto the boundless realms of space！So said the guests in speech and song，As in the chimney，burning bright，We hung the iron crane tonight，And merry was the feast and long.
And now I sit and muse on what may be，And in my vision see，or seem to see，Through floating vapours interfused with light，Shapes indeterminate，that gleam and fade，As shadows passing into deeper shadeSink and elude the sight.
Is spread the table round and small；Upon the polish’d silver shineThe evening lamps，but，more divine，The light of love shines over all；Of love，that says not mine and thine，But ours，for ours is thine and mine.
They want no guests，to come between Their tender glances like a screen，And tell them tales of land and sea，And whatsoever may betideThe great，forgotten world outside；They want no guests；they needs must be Each other‘s own best company.
III.
The picture fades；as at a village fair A showman’s views，dissolving into air，Again appear transfigured on the screen，So in my fancy this；and now once more，In part transfigured，through the open door Appears the selfsame scene.
Seated，I see the two again，But not alone；they entertain A little angel unaware，With face as round as is the moon；A royal guest with flaxen hair，Who，throned upon his lofty chair，Drums on the table with his spoon，Then drops it careless on the floor，To grasp at things unseen before.Are these celestial manners？theseThe ways that win，the arts that please？Ah yes；consider well the guest，And whatsoe‘er he does seems best；He ruleth by the right divineOf helplessness，so lately born In purple chambers of the morn，As sovereign over thee and thine.He speaketh not；and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes；The golden silence of the Greek，The gravest wisdom of the wise，Not spoken in language，but in looks More legible than printed books，As if he could but would not speak.And now，O monarch absolute，Thy power is put to proof；for，lo！Resistless，fathomless，and slow，The nurse comes rustling like the sea，And pushes back thy chair and thee，And so good night to King Canute.
IV.
As one who walking in a forest sees
A lovely landscape through the parted trees，Then sees it not，for boughs that intervene；Or，as we see the moon sometimes reveal ’d Through drifting clouds，and then again conceal‘d，So I behold the scene.
