As the spirit fetters loosen And the soul gains greater height, It will see the evening shadows Meet and kiss the dawning light; And, dispelling all the shadows, This supernal life eternal, Opens into morning light. Aye, the golden gates swing open! To reveal the splendors bright; From His throne the glory streaming Haloes Death with holy light; Angels voicing their rejoicing— Heaven’s mansions brightly gleaming, Flood Life’s evening time with light. The Unseen. Do you feel my spirit with you— Feel my kiss upon your lips? Doth your heart throb with the message That the messenger outstrips? Ay, I know your thought, responding, Know this soul-touch is of thine, That you send me tender soothing O’er love’s subtile, unseen line. Soul to soul can tell its sorrow, Sympathy response impart— Joy can flash o’er lines of distance, Touch and thrill a kindred heart. Loneliness! I scarcely know it; Loved ones in my spirit’s reach Know my call and give me answer— Silence pulses with their speech. We have glimpse of joys, thro’ this one, That await the soul above, Where unbroken, sweet communion Flows thro’ sympathy and love. Painting. O, beauteous Art! with heart o’erfilled with joy I stand And offer up to God its silent, grateful praise That He, in blessing, hath endowed a human hand With gifts so near divine; Thro’ these creations, warmed to life in Genius’ blaze, Doth inspiration shine. Here, oriental scenes are brought within my reach; The beauty of the castled Rhine, in softened hues, With fine, bewitching charm o’er-mastering speech, My raptured gaze enchains; I roam in dream the land whose purple vintage strews With wealth its hills and plains. And thus I dream and drink the blest enchantment in, That flows from art, with full, ineffable delight; Forgetting earth is cursed with sorrow, death and sin, I taste supernal bliss, And, in this ecstacy of joy, a world of light, It seems, hath dropped to this. Yet not with those I’d join who throng Art’s crowded hall, Whose motive is to prove themselves profound in art By use of bulky words, but which, in strident fall, Each hearer doth impress With lack of gift to grasp what colors may impart, Or canvass may express. Nor go with her whose hand, with long and tedious drill Has learned to daub with paint—whose tongue, with flippant ease, Can toss artistic nomenclature round at will, Yet nothing knows of art— Of art’s true self, whose secret power to hold and please Is soul, in every part. I’d put the shoes from off my feet, and then, alone Before the work, would feel I stood on holy ground— That there a spirit with its God had talked, and by His own Had been informed, inspired— Aye, minds should be, before they range this sacred bound, In thoughtfullness attired.