University of Virginia Library


105

XCVII. THE OLD RAPTURE

Now, every time that music sends its dream,
Winged like an angel, o'er the listening skies,
I meet, eternal love, thy full clear eyes,
And pass into the old ecstatic stream
Of thoughts that God's sweet vivid hand supplies.
The old flower-rapture, fragrant, is around
My spirit, snatching it from earthly ground,—
Towards heavenly hills on flower-soft wings I rise.
The great immortal yearning soul within
Yearns like a wrestling giant, and it shakes
The body terribly,—and it forsakes
The earth, and all earth's joys and soulless din,
And seeks the regions where the eternal streams,
Like lilies on their ripples, lift love's dreams.