POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
FAILURE
Visions are piled up on the morning skies!
With great cloud-bastion, arch of mist, and spire
Soaring to win the sun's first golden fire,
The spacious mansions of the soul arise.
Grateful of heart, fresh-dedicated, wise,
I to my earthly task, at heaven's hire,
Eagerly turn, and fear no more to tire,
Now such a hope is bright before mine eyes!
But toward the close of day, the scented air
Thrills to a murmur and a brat of wings;
Twilight is veiled; "Who stirs—can Love be there?"
No answer on his careless flight he flings:
But, was there not a summons of shy laughter?
I turn I tremble; swift I follow after.
CHARM
Charm? It is color of the rose by twilight;
The silver note that shivered crystal yields
It is a rainbow, caught in the blown fountain;
A light wind, winging its pathway through the fields.
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