Here will the brooks that rove
Under the mossy trees,—
Grave with the music of
Underworld melodies,—
Lap him in peace.
Here will the winds, that blow
Out of the haunted west,—
Gold with the dreams that glow
There on the heaven’s breast,—
Lull him to rest.
Here will the stars and moon,
Silent and far and deep,—
Old with the mystic rune
Of the slow years that creep,—
Charm him with sleep.
Under the ancient beech,
Deep in the quiet shade,—
Where the wood’s peace may reach
Him, as each bough is swayed,—
Let him be laid.
CLAIRVOYANCE
The sunlight, that makes of the heaven
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind, that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts the heart and makes strong.
I look in one’s face, and the shadows
Are lifted; and, lo, I can see,
Through windows of evident being,—
Filled full of eternity,—
The form of the essence of Beauty
God garments with mystery.
I hearken one’s voice, and the wrangle
Of living hath pause: and I hear,
Through doors of invisible spirit,—
Filled full of God’s light that is clear,—
The radiant raiment of Music,
In the hush of the heavens, sweep near.
THE IDEAL
Nor time nor all his minions
Of sorrow and of pain,
Shall dash with vulture pinions
The cup she fills again
Within the dream-dominions
Of life where she doth reign.