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When cottage-hearths are glimmering low,
And warder cocks forget to crow;
Then is the hour
That hearts feel passion's overflow,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!
When stilly night seems earth's vast grave,
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave;
When land and sea, in wedlock bound
By silence, sleep in bliss profound;
Then is the hour
That hearts like living well-springs sound,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!
