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119
“DION.”
(LYMAN R. GOODMAN.)
You sang too early in the spring
Of our uncheerful year of song;
You felt the bitter chill of wrong,
And on a sudden ceased to sing.
Of our uncheerful year of song;
You felt the bitter chill of wrong,
And on a sudden ceased to sing.
And on a sudden sang no more
In skillful measure to our needs;
But there is One who ever heeds
Your numbers on the farther shore.
In skillful measure to our needs;
But there is One who ever heeds
Your numbers on the farther shore.
120
I picture you as one who lies
Among the palms, with harp and crown.
A silver, quivering thread, let down
From crystal walls of Paradise,
Among the palms, with harp and crown.
A silver, quivering thread, let down
From crystal walls of Paradise,
Is the sweet echo of your voice
That thrills me. In your vineyard's throng
I taste your purple grapes of song,
And in their honey-blood rejoice.
That thrills me. In your vineyard's throng
I taste your purple grapes of song,
And in their honey-blood rejoice.
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