There is an hour in the day's progression
That belongs to me.
I hold it close, this precious hour,
And guard it jealously.

It comes, this hour of mine.
Just before the dawning.
It comes on little cat feet
In the hush of early morning.

It comes, this special hour,
On soft and silent wings.
All in calm, all is still,
In the quiet that it brings.

The quiet enfolds me tendererly;
It's presence is everywhere,
Protecting me, caressing me,
In my solitude there.

I think my innermost thoughts,
Those fleeting and those soul-deep.
I reflect, I reminisce and meditate
While the rest of my world is asleep.

I ponder and I muse, I touch
The chords of memory,
Of things that were and bygone things
That were never meant to be.

Lingering shadows of fleeting night
Begin to steal away.
Along the garden wall, shy fingers of light
Introduce another hopeful day.

It has gone with the waking day
That unfolds like a budding flower,
But it will return; it will come again,
For this is mine own, my secret hour.