In sleep and in the solitary dusk there come Fine lines of light upon the lowered lids, A flush that lets us in the heart of night And hints dear wonders to be there at home; As if the universal fabric bids Its human pattern know that all is light. In snow Have we not seen the whiteness smitten through With sudden rays of glory, vague with veils, Of some beloved hue that pales To earthly rose and violet and blue? Oh you Who pulse within that light--we know, we know! Soon From without transition night We would come into this, our own. Then the dim tune The which we almost hear, The low-keyed colour and the word We have not heard, All these we shall be shown, And infinitely near To God, breathe for our breath his light. HALF THOUGHT I close my eyes and on the night A face looks in at me. It speaks a word like burning light, I answer joyfully. It dims away. The word is sped. I know not what we two have said. The old dark sparkles like a star. And when shall we be touched with sight To find the things that are? CONTOURS I am glad of the straight lines of the rain; Of the free blowing curves of the grain; Of the perilous swirling and curling of fire; The sharp upthrust of a spire; Of the ripples on the river Where the patterns curl and quiver And sun thrills; Of the innumerable undulations of the hills. But the true line is drawn from my spirit to some infinite outward place ... That line I cannot trace. PART III NEWS NOTES OF PORTAGE, WISCONSIN I THE KILBOURN ROAD In June the road to Kilbourn is a long green hall, A corridor of leafage pillared white By birches and with wild-rose patterns on the wall, And all melodious with the fluid fall Or lift of red-winged blackbirds fluting mating cries. The very air Is visible, not by the light, Not by the shades that drift And dip, but by an essence rhythmic with the flood That flows Not in the sap, not in the blood, But otherwhere. And of that essence grows All men see in the air of Paradise. He lay upon a little upland slope Deep, deep with grass. And when I saw his head above the green Where I must pass, The battered hat, the squinting eyes Blinking the westering sun, I felt a sting of fear---- Alas, that in June’s delicate demesne A watching human face can teach one fear. So then I spoke to him, gave him good day, And seeing his gun said what I always say Meeting a huntsman: “Friend, I hope You have killed nothing here.” He stared and grinned. And with his grin I felt his trustiness. So when He scrambled down the bank and followed me, I waited for him as my kind and kin.