Page:Poems Carmichael.djvu/37

Moonrise on the Wasatch.

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And Nature held her breath and waited there,
An awed enthusiast at the shrine of prayer;
Like a pale devotee, whose reverent lips
Stifle the breath that burns her finger-tips.

The crimson-tinted cloud paled, with a start,
As though new hope chased memory from its heart;
A gleam of whiteness stirred the vapors pale,
As beauty's finger moves a bridal veil;
A fleecy mass, wide fringed with silver light,
Drooped on the summit of the proudest height;
Then, floating northward, swept in folds of grace
From the white beauty of the moon's meek face.
How still! how pure! that chastened luster bowed
Its glance of radiance from its veil of cloud!
How meek the loveliness, how kind the power,
Whose arm of purity embraced the hour!
How beautiful the misty robe that trailed
O'er bloom that brightened, over stars that paled—
Though its white fold caught in a dusky cave,
Or swept its fingers o'er a gleaming wave,
Piled on the sward a moss of woven gems,
Or dragged in tatters through the forest stems!

A wave of beauty, only too complete,
Surged o'er my head and widened at my feet;

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