My soul and I went walking
Beneath the moon of spring;
The lilies pale were talking,
We heard them murmuring.
From dimly moonlit places
They thrust long throats of white,
And lifted fairy faces
Of fragrant snow and light.
Their language was an essence,
Yet clear as any bird’s;
And from it grew a presence,
As music grows from words.
A spirit born of silence
And chastity and dew
Among Elysian islands
Were not more white to view.
A spirit born of fire
And holiness and snow,
Within the Heaven’s desire,
Were not more pure to know.
He smiled among them, lifting
Pale hands of prayer and peace—
And through the moonlight, drifting,
Came words to me like these:—
“We are His lilies, lilies,
Whose praises here we sing!
We are the lilies, lilies
Of Christ our Lord and King!”
ANTHEM OF DAWN
I
Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,—
Up and far up and over,—the heaven grew erubescent,
Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn,
Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament’s barbiton;
And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems,
And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hems
Of the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst,
Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.