Spirit of Twilight, through your folded wings I catch a glimpse of your averted face, And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings “Is not this common earth a holy place?” Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song That sleeps, and waits a singer,--like a hymn That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long, Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim. Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found A woman sitting in a silent room Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound. These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all, And the room’s name is Mystery where you sit, Woman whom we call Twilight, when night’s pall You lift across our Earth to cover it. TO A THRUSH BY T. A. DALY Sing clear, O! throstle, Thou golden-tongued apostle And little brown-frocked brother Of the loved Assisian! Sing courage to the mother, Sing strength into the man, For they, who in another May Trod Hope’s scant wine from grapes of pain, Have tasted in thy song to-day The bitter-sweet red lees again. To them in whose sad May-time thou Sang’st comfort from thy maple bough, To tinge the presaged dole with sweet, O! prophet then, be prophet now And paraclete! That fateful May! The pregnant vernal night Was throbbing with the first faint pangs of day, The while with ordered urge toward life and light, Earth-atoms countless groped their destined way; And one full-winged to fret Its tender oubliette, The warding mother-heart above it woke, Darkling she lay in doubt, then, sudden wise, Whispered her husband’s drowsy ear and broke The estranging seal of slumber from his eyes: “My hour is nigh: arise!” Already, when, with arms for comfort linked, The lovers at an eastward window stood, The rosy day, in cloudy swaddlings, blinked Through misty green new-fledged in Wister Wood. Breathless upon this birth The still-entranced earth Seemed brooding, motionless in windless space. Then rose thy priestly chant, O! holy bird! And heaven and earth were quickened with its grace; To tears two wedded souls were moved who heard, And one, unborn, was stirred! O! Comforter, enough that from thy green Hid tabernacle in the wood’s recess To those care-haunted lovers thou, unseen, Should’st send thy flame-tipped song to cheer and bless. Enough for them to hear And feel thy presence near; And yet when he, regardful of her ease, Had led her back by brightening hall and stair To her own chamber’s quietude and peace, One maple-bowered window shook with rare, Sweet song--and thou wert there!