FOUR-O’CLOCKS
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.
Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart— Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.
Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.
And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG
Whence it came I did not know, How it came I could not tell, But I heard the music flow Like the pealing of a bell; Up and down the wild-wood arches, Through the sombre firs and larches, Long I heard it rise and swell; Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!
Then the wondrous music poured Yet a fuller, stronger strain, Till my soul in rapture soared Out of reach of toil and pain! Then, oh then, I know not how, Then, oh then, I know not where, I was borne, serene and slow, Through the boundless fields of air— Past the sunset’s golden bars, Past long ranks of glittering stars, To a realm where time was not, And its secrets were forgot!
Land of shadows, who may know Where thy golden lilies blow? Land of shadows, on what star In the blue depths shining far, Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Thou dost lie what tongue can tell? Send from out thy mystic portals With the holy chrism to-day, One of all thy high immortals Who shall teach me what to say!