Into the twilight dun,
Blue moth and dragon-fly
Adventuring alone,—
Shall be more brave than I?
There innocents shall bloom,
And the white cherry tree,
With birch and willow plume
To strew the road for me.
The wilding orioles then
Shall make the golden air
Heavy with joy again,
And the dark heart shall dare
Resume the old desire,—
The exigence of spring
To be the orange fire
That tips the world's gray wing.
And the lone wood-bird—Hark!
The whippoorwill, night-long,
Threshing the summer dark
With his dim flail of song!—
Shall be the lyric lift,
When all my senses creep,
To bear me through the rift
In the blue range of sleep.
And so I pass beyond
The solace of your hand.
But ah, so brave and fond!
Within that morrow-land,
Where deed and daring fail,
But joy forevermore
Shall tremble and prevail
Against the narrow door,
Where sorrow knocks too late,
And grief is overdue,
Beyond the granite gate
There will be thoughts of you.
From 'Behind the Arras': copyrighted 1895, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company