That sends him groping down the ended years
To find again some long-discarded boon,
To find again some long-departed June.
Then, by the magic of the shade and sun,
Of tree and rose and brook and verdant sod,
This world shall seem to be that other one
Where feet walk never, yet where souls have trod—
And he shall hold communion with his God.
THE MYSTERY
Heard a rustle in the brush