Poems (Bushnell)/The Pilgrim's Revery

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

XV THE PILGRIM'S REVERY

The waning moon shines pale and still;
 The winds in russet branches die;
Day faints upon the darkening hill,
 And melts into the days gone by.

The vanished days! now dim and far,
 Yet none so dead they cannot wake
And stir in me, as yon high star
 Quivers, deep-visioned, in the lake.

They glimmer down the moon's long beam,
 They rustle in the russet tree;
They fade in twilight's melting dream,
 And slide in starlight down to me.

I feel the hush of brooding wings,
 The warmth of tender joys far flown,
And little flights and flutterings
 Of blessings that were once my own.

But O, most sweet, and O, most sad,
 Of all these lost delights that thrill!—
The blessings that I almost had,
 But life can never more fulfill.

And yet 'tis strange, but these are more
 My own, to-night, than all beside,—
Glad stars upon a distant shore,
 That draw my sails across the tide.

Fade, golden evenings, fade and sink!
 Burn, crimson leaves, burn out and fall!
For life is other than we think,
 And death the surest life of all.