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a last dream.
Not overhead, I think, nor from the east,
Where the sun has its solemn, annual birth,
Nor glazing the waste whiteness, nor unsheathing
The glaciers' keen swords,—but fine and still,
And as it seemed, dilating from a seed
Of light within,—light peaceful, broad and soft,
Grew round me where I stood. And God, who watched
The battle from his trembling depths of Night,
In sign and seal of this my victory,
Sends his calm angel here, who folds an arm
About and leads me safe, I ask not where,
For heart and life are pillowed on his love.
Where the sun has its solemn, annual birth,
Nor glazing the waste whiteness, nor unsheathing
The glaciers' keen swords,—but fine and still,
And as it seemed, dilating from a seed
Of light within,—light peaceful, broad and soft,
Grew round me where I stood. And God, who watched
The battle from his trembling depths of Night,
In sign and seal of this my victory,
Sends his calm angel here, who folds an arm
About and leads me safe, I ask not where,
For heart and life are pillowed on his love.
Will any say, I yielded,—drawing near
Those lists of high renown, where the gaunt Three
And I fought the dumb battle out, and left
No trace in the blown, desert fields?—Nay, far
Beyond the last low wall of crimson light,
That struggles to hedge off with baby gleam,
The insurging Dark,—where sits the sceptred cold
Those lists of high renown, where the gaunt Three
And I fought the dumb battle out, and left
No trace in the blown, desert fields?—Nay, far
Beyond the last low wall of crimson light,
That struggles to hedge off with baby gleam,
The insurging Dark,—where sits the sceptred cold
