TWILIGHT.
57
Feet that are silent now,—forms that have passed forever;
Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit beside us,
Holding our hands once more, speaking from soul to spirit.
Back to the white-haired sire she brings the days of his childhood,
Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish faces,—
Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes and his longings
Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful walls of the future.
Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of children
(Grown to be women and men) clinging again around her,
Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet churchyard,
And shows her the golden chain completed and clasped in heaven.
Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit beside us,
Holding our hands once more, speaking from soul to spirit.
Back to the white-haired sire she brings the days of his childhood,
Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish faces,—
Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes and his longings
Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful walls of the future.
Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of children
(Grown to be women and men) clinging again around her,
Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet churchyard,
And shows her the golden chain completed and clasped in heaven.
But to the young man's eyes it shows in the dawn of promise
The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie before him;
The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie before him;
