Poems (Argent)/A Reverie
For works with similar titles, see A Reverie.
A REVERIE.
"The soul has her sunny days, and her starless nights, her winter frost and her summer glow, her laughter and her tears, and in her intercourse with God, spiritual suffering has her mission to turn her out of error and lead her into truth."—Baring Gould
'TIS Sunday evening in full summer time— The month of roses when they brightly bloom,And other flowers are in their gladdest prime, Lifting the earth awhile from winter's gloom,And happy murmurs borne aloft from insects' wingsA sense of life and rapture to the spirit brings.
Here in the garden, sheltered from the sun, The green leaves making melody so sweet,I sit and watch the roses one by one And hear far off the rippling waves of wheatFall peacefully across the lengthened landscape o'er,Until all sound is lost, and silence reigns once more.
And very beautiful the whole world seems, No cloud across the azured vaults of sky,So that my fancies float on golden dreams And bygone thoughts awake and wander by.Dear friends and faces from the distance come and graspMy languid hands in theirs, and tender is their clasp.
I lean my head upon my hand and gaze Back to the past, back to the long ago,Yet doth my full heart mutely whisper praise, Although these tuneful bells I scarcely know,Which now I hear, all strange, their echo sinks and swells,For they are not mine own, my dear familiar bells!
And yet my present home is fresh and sweet, The melody of birds dwells ever roundThe ancient garden where the shadows meet And mingle darkly o'er the wind-swept ground. But oh! this wayward heart a dearer place holds still,A little sheltered spot beside a town lit hill.
For there my life's fair book lay opened wide And not a page was sadly folded down,But now I think, within the whole world wide, There's not a record half so seared and brown.One guesses vaguely at the inmost sin and strife,The good God only knows the whole of human life.
And as I muse this lovely summer day And mark the glad bells from the distance steal,My thoughts like birds fly far and far away, As on the wind that sweet melodious pealBursts louder, oh! they bring unto my mind once moreThe old church that I loved and worshipped in of yore.
So softly comes the music of the lark, The tender strains of nightingale at eve,Just now my soul is silent with the dark Of vain regret, and she doth inly grieveAnd make her moan,—who doth the veil of sorrow take,And wear awhile in tears, must sorrow for love's sake.
Perpetual summer to earth's children bring, Dear God, who knows too well poor human woe,The world's frail wealth of love that bears a wing All swift as brittle for weak souls below.We look to Thee, oh Christ! and fain our homesick eyesWould close to wake, beneath the palms of Paradise!