Poems (Chitwood)/A Prophecy
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."