Maurine by Ella Wheeler Wilcox — Read

To little birds that never tire of humming / About the garden in the summer weather, / Aunt Ruth compared us, after Helen's coming, / As we two roamed, or sat and talked together. / Twelve months apart, we had so much to say / Of school days gone-and time since passed away; / Of that old friend, and this; of what we'd done; / Of how our separate paths in life had run; / Of what we would do, in the coming years; / Of plans and castles, hopes and dreams and fears. / All these, and more, as soon as we found speech, / We touched upon, and skimmed from this to that.

But at the first each only gazed on each, / And, dumb with joy, that did not need a voice / Like lesser joys, to say, "Lo! I rejoice," / With smiling eyes and clasping hands we sat / Wrapped in that peace, felt but with those dear, / Contented just to know each other near. / But when this silent eloquence gave place / To words, 'twas like the rising of a flood / Above a dam. We sat there, face to face, / And let our talk glide on where'er it would, / Speech never halting in its speed or zest, / Save when our rippling laughter let it rest; / Just as a stream will sometimes pause and play / About a bubbling spring, then dash away.