Poems (Proctor)/Born of the Spirit

by Edna Dean Proctor

BORN OF THE SPIRIT.

She called me a moment before,
And smiled, as I entered the door,
   In her gentle way;
A sigh . . . a droop of the head . . .
And something forever had fled,
   And she was but clay!

Her hand was yet clasped in mine;
And bright, in the golden shine,
   Her brown hair fell;
But the marble Psyche there
As soon would have heard my prayer,
   My wild farewell.

T was the hush of an autumn noon,
So clear that the waning moon
   Was a ghost in the sky;
Not a leaf on the lindens swayed,
And even the brook in the glade
   Ran, noiseless, by.

What had gone from the room,
Leaving the sunshine gloom,
   The soft air chill?
If the tiniest bird had flown,
Its flight had a shadow thrown
   On lawn and rill;

But neither a sound nor sight
Disturbed the calm or the light
   Of the noontide air;
Yet the friend I loved was as far
As a ghostly moon or star,
   From my call and care.

Dead, with her hand in mine!
Dead, in the golden shine
   Of the autumn day!
Dead, and no note in heaven,
Nor a gleam of white wings given,
   To mark her way!

And my heart went up in the cry,
"How did the swift soul fly?
   What life inherit?" . . .
Then the wind blew sweet and was gone . . .
And a voice said, "So is one
   Born of the Spirit."