At evening and at morning
By an enchanted way
I walk the world in wonder,
And have no word to say.
It is the path we traversed
One twilight, thou and I;
Thy beauty all a rapture,
My spirit all a cry.
The red leaves fall upon it,
The moon and mist and rain,
But not the magic footfall
That made its meaning plain.
Weather of the Soul
There is a world of being
We range from pole to pole,
Through seasons of the spirit
And weather of the soul.
It has its new-born Aprils,
With gladness in the air,
Its golden Junes of rapture,
Its winters of despair.
And in its tranquil autumns
We halt to re-enforce
Our tattered scarlet pennons
With valor and resource.
From undiscovered regions
Only the angels know,
Great winds of aspiration
Perpetually blow,
To free the sap of impulse
From torpor of distrust,
And into flowers of joyance
Quicken the sentient dust.