Poems (Chitwood)/A Prophecy

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

For works with similar titles, see A Prophecy.

A PROPHECY.

The gloaming glistens with its gold,
 And soft clouds travel o'er the sky;
Day goeth sadly to the fold
 Of evening's pearly arms to die.

Like harp-notes from another clime,
 There comes a whisper low and sweet,
Which tells me in some future time,
 We, who have loved so, yet may meet.

A strange, wild prophecy is mine,
 A fearful power upon me lies;
Oh, I shall clasp those hands of thine,
 And look again into thine eyes.

Not where the purple light of noon
 Shimmers upon the homestead walls;
Not where the bees their bugles tune,
 And the wild ring-dove sadly calls.

Not where the water-lilies grow,
 Beside the river wide and deep;
Not where the wild pink roses blow,
 And moss and pensive ivy creep.

Not where the orchard blooms drift down,
 In every breath of moving air;
Oh, never more thy locks I'll crown,
 And clasp thy snowy fingers there;

But, upward as I lift my eye,
 And upward as my heart doth beat,
With solemn voice I prophecy,
 We two shall meet, we yet shall meet—

Meet in a land of fadeless bloom,
 Meet in a land of endless rest;
Thou shalt go downward to the tomb,
 Thy white hands folded on thy breast.

I, too, shall slumber as at night,
 I, too, shall fold my pulseless hands;
And then when comes the morning light,
 We shall awake in better lands.

Pray for the morning, pray with faith,
 Such prayers are never said in vain;
That on the ebon shores of death,
 We who have loved may meet again.

Along the soul's electric wire,
 Thrills out an answer to my cry:
It shall be as thou dost desire,
 For when one dieth both shall die."