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MY GLADE IN THE WEST.
171
It is I who arise from the grave of the mold,—
'T is I whom the wind and the rain have made strong;
'T is the bud of my heart that begins to unfold,—
'T is the flower of my being resolved into song.
'T is I whom the wind and the rain have made strong;
'T is the bud of my heart that begins to unfold,—
'T is the flower of my being resolved into song.
Fly on, changeling throstle, the spell is complete:
Faint echoes, like fragrance, float far in the glade;
And oh, if the voice of my soul were as sweet,
From the sun and the dew it were heaven to fade!
Faint echoes, like fragrance, float far in the glade;
And oh, if the voice of my soul were as sweet,
From the sun and the dew it were heaven to fade!
In holy content to lie yielding the ghost,
Mid silence and solitude shadowed and gray;
While the rose of existence, in melody lost,
Would, fold after fold, vanish lightly away!
Mid silence and solitude shadowed and gray;
While the rose of existence, in melody lost,
Would, fold after fold, vanish lightly away!
Hark! the pines are alert! from the South they have caught
A rustling, a surging, a soft rolling sound;
Now comes the wind! tearing the meshes of thought,
And waking my soul from its quiet profound.
A rustling, a surging, a soft rolling sound;
Now comes the wind! tearing the meshes of thought,
And waking my soul from its quiet profound.
Approaching, delaying, on-rushing with speed,
This secret, seraphic repose to invade,
This secret, seraphic repose to invade,
