Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 7

down the hillside lies the sleeping lake?Lazily reflecting back the sun,?And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze?Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.?The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops?The green crest of the hill on which I sit;?And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,?The very crown of nature's changing year?When all her surging life is at its full.?To me alone it is a time of pause,?A void and silent space between two worlds,?When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,?Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.?For life alone is creator of life,?And closest contact with the human world?Is like a lantern shining in the night?To light me to a knowledge of myself.?I love the vivid life of winter months?In constant intercourse with human minds,?When every new experience is gain?And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;?The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
"To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New"
As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,?Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging. So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.
The Way
At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water, While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.
It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons, Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine; No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers, And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen. And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longing to wander,?The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song of Nature,?Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."
Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road Where many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the trees and the flowers,?The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing. And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water, Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean. But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset. It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water, And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire, Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water; And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight, yet he ventures?His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him. O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city, The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!
Diya {original title is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha}
Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!?See where it casts the shadow of that tree?Far out upon the grass. And every gust?Of light night wind comes laden with the scent?Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:?Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that?Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,?The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.?It seems as though the garden which you love?Were like a swinging censer, its incense?Floating before us as a reverent act?To sanctify and bless our night of love.?Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you?Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;?And tell me it is by your own free will?That you are here, and that you like to be?Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.?I need to hear it often for my heart?Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.?Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,?And yet I would not have it goodness, rather?Excess of selfishness in you to need?Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.?I wonder can it really be that you?And I are here alone, and that the night?Is full of hours, and all the world asleep,?And none can call to you to come away;?For you have given all yourself to me?Making me gentle by your willingness.?Has your life too been waiting for this time,?Not only mine the sharpness of this joy??Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though?I were a priest before a holy shrine.?I'm glad that you are beautiful, although?Were you not lovely still I needs must love;?But you are all things, it must have been so?For otherwise it were not you. Come, close;?When you are in the circle of my arm?Faith grows a mountain and I