Twilight a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells: Under the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells In quietness reimage heaven within their blooms, Sapphire and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes, Out of what deeps arising, all the flower-bells fling, Unknowing the enchanted odorous song they sing! Oh, never was an eve so living yet: the wood Stirs not but breathes enraptured quietude. Here in these shades the Ancient knows itself, the Soul, And out of slumber waking starts unto the goal. What bright companions nod and go along with it! Out of the teeming dark what dusky creatures flit, That through the long leagues of the island night above Come wandering by me, whispering and beseeching love,-- As in the twilight children gather close and press Nigh and more nigh with shadowy tenderness, Feeling they know not what, with noiseless footsteps glide Seeking familiar lips or hearts to dream beside. Oh, voices, I would go with you, with you, away, Facing once more the radiant gateways of the day; With you, with you, what memories arise, and nigh Trampling the crowded figures of the dawn go by; Dread deities, the giant powers that warred on men Grow tender brothers and gay children once again; Fades every hate away before the Mother's breast Where all the exiles of the heart return to rest. --July 15, 1895 In the Womb Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil: Upon the dull black mould the dew-damp lies: The horse waits patient: from his lonely toil The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes. The unbudding hedgerows, dark against day's fires, Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim Over the unregarding city's spires The lonely beauty shines alone for him. And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds, And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see How in her womb the Mighty Mother moulds The infant spirit for Eternity. --January 15, 1895 In the Garden of God Within the iron cities One walked unknown for years, In his heart the pity of pities That grew for human tears When love and grief were ended The flower of pity grew; By unseen hands 'twas tended And fed with holy dew. Though in his heart were barred in The blooms of beauty blown; Yet he who grew the garden Could call no flower his own. For by the hands that watered, The blooms that opened fair Through frost and pain were scattered To sweeten the dull air. --February 15, 1895 The Breath of Light