Lyrics
47
That world where they grow volatile and fling
A spray of golden butterflies a-wing
Up through the blue infinities of dream
To brush God's feet, and flutter, wings a-gleam,
About the veinless marble of His chair,
And make a sudden splendor through His hair;
That world where they drift ghostly down the dusk
Of old forgotten twilights, toss the musk
Of primroses against his face who reads,
Make prayers from the clicking of old beads,
Blow long dead summers through the naked trees
Leaf after leaf, call back faint memories
Of lips that once were sweet, and eyes once glad,
And little hands that set the spirit mad
With plucking of invisible lute strings,—
All, all the vanished magic of dead things.
