At Last.
I sit in the twilight's sweet gloaming,
My heart throbbing low in my breast,
While my soul is forevermore roaming
In search of that place called—Rest.
My heart throbbing low in my breast,
While my soul is forevermore roaming
In search of that place called—Rest.
My eyes look away towards the valleys
Where shadow and light intervene.
The brook laughing by with its sallies,
A drift of the moonlight's sheen.
Where shadow and light intervene.
The brook laughing by with its sallies,
A drift of the moonlight's sheen.
The night air so softly doth whisper
Of Peace and Fruition at last,
That I turn with a start as the vesper
Hymn reaches my ear from the past.
Of Peace and Fruition at last,
That I turn with a start as the vesper
Hymn reaches my ear from the past.
An echo of silences golden,
All grown o'er with hoar-frost of years,
The memory so bitter and olden,
Is a grave and a casket of tears;
All grown o'er with hoar-frost of years,
The memory so bitter and olden,
Is a grave and a casket of tears;
Strewn o'er with a ripple of laughter,
A ribbon, a smile and a song;
The dead Hopes that follow thereafter,
With the Faith that doth to them belong.
A ribbon, a smile and a song;
The dead Hopes that follow thereafter,
With the Faith that doth to them belong.
The touch of a hand that has vanished,
A breath floating over my hair,
The echo of footsteps once banished,
A silvery voice; Ah, so rare.
A breath floating over my hair,
The echo of footsteps once banished,
A silvery voice; Ah, so rare.
—52—
