The stillness that smoked from afar, fell from above and weirdly glorious
It deadened the steps . . . With whispers of awed respect quivered the voice of my soul,
(Something languishly feeble filled the air as if its freshness were absorbed
By the glowing thirst of burning tapers.)
It was a time like this, in the past when with mournful rapture I inhaled
The prolonged dying of colors and lights and listened to the music
Of approaching shadows . . . A mysterious meaning, spoke to me
Through the nearness of the night and the sighing of eternal dreams.
Today an unknown fear swept hurriedly across my cheeks, and long forgotten years
Again in my soul arose. How strange now appears my very breath,
As if some one invisible walked with me at my side.
And with a touch I knew, were to press my shaking hand.
O Holy One . . . This is the festive day in your garden of eternity.
It is a requiem my thoughts are chanting as in a billowy choir.
Mingling with the warm tears of the tapers, where crimson blood o’erflows
The chalice of eternal light, upon your black draped altar . . . . .
The breath of cold death blew a curtain of shadow into my soul
And the prayer of meditant solitude pityingly pressed my hand;
For the black-draped flowing veil of my life’s memories,
Was the downy couch, whereon forever was impressed the outline of your lifeless form . . . .
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