II.
Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day! The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine. An armored knight, in panoply divine, It is not thine to loiter by the way, Though all the meads with summer flowers be gay, Though birds sing for thee, and though fair stars shine, And every god pours for thee life’s best wine! Nor friend nor foe hath strength to bid thee stay. Gleaming beneath thy brows with smouldering fire Thine eyes look out upon the eternal hills As forth thou ridest with thy spear in rest. From the far heights a voice cries, “Come up higher!” And in swift answer all thy being thrills, When lo! ’tis night—thy sun is in the west!
III.
But thou, To-morrow! never yet was born In earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair— Never yet tripped, with footsteps light as air, So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn! Fresh as the radiant dawning—all unworn By lightest touch of sorrow, or of care, Thou dost the glory of the morning share By snowy wings of hope and faith upborne! O fair To-morrow! what our souls have missed Art thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still? The buds of promise that have never blown— The tender lips that we have never kissed— The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill— The one white pearl that life hath never known!
DARKNESS
Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm For eyes grown weary of the garish Day! Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray, Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm! Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray Steals the hot fever of the soul away, Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm! O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair, And Light is dear when summer days are long, And one by one the harvesters go by; But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care, And folded palms, and hush of evensong, And all the unfathomed silence of the sky!
SILENCE
O golden Silence, bid our souls be still, And on the foolish fretting of our care Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware! Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill With soft reverberations. Thou wert there, And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair— A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill. Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet; Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low Murmur of dying winds among the trees, And dear the music of Love’s hurrying feet; Yet only he who knows thee learns to know The secret soul of loftiest harmonies.
SANCTIFIED
A holy presence hath been here, and, lo, The place is sanctified! From off thy feet Put thou thy shoes, my soul! The air is sweet Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow Of most celestial music, and the beat Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou, Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul, Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine, Led by an angel, though we know not how, Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole, And passed from thy love to the Love Divine!