Born of the Spirit (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.
'Twas 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."
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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