 | Along the trail |  |
VISITATION
Was it a dream, or did I see him there,
That quiet presence in my easy-chair?
Surely a sacred hush was in the room,
And a dim sense of legends made the gloom
Of unlit tapers and a dying fire
Rich with the grace of wonderland drawn nigher—
And there across the table, who but he?
That quiet presence in my easy-chair?
Surely a sacred hush was in the room,
And a dim sense of legends made the gloom
Of unlit tapers and a dying fire
Rich with the grace of wonderland drawn nigher—
And there across the table, who but he?
I cannot think but that he thought of me,
Far off, in some diviner atmosphere,
And, thinking so,—if he did not appear
Indeed, as I half fancied then, and now
Still sometimes dream, so clear the wide calm brow,
Shadowed with a sweet seriousness, I see
Across the table in my reverie—
Yet, thinking so, his loving thought had power
To make me feel his presence like a flower
That sends a heavy odor through the air,
To make me see him, though he was not there.
Far off, in some diviner atmosphere,
And, thinking so,—if he did not appear
101
Still sometimes dream, so clear the wide calm brow,
Shadowed with a sweet seriousness, I see
Across the table in my reverie—
Yet, thinking so, his loving thought had power
To make me feel his presence like a flower
That sends a heavy odor through the air,
To make me see him, though he was not there.
O gentle ghost! I would that I could deem
That I were worthy of that passing dream.
I would that I could think that my poor song
Had reached thee where thou walkest with the throng
Of gracious poets in their glory crowned,
Shakespeare and Burns and Shelley laurel-bound,
And pleased thee but so much as thou shouldst turn
And yield one sigh for those who still must mourn
On this harsh earth, one sigh for him whose line
Were too much graced in that one thought of thine.
That I were worthy of that passing dream.
I would that I could think that my poor song
Had reached thee where thou walkest with the throng
Of gracious poets in their glory crowned,
Shakespeare and Burns and Shelley laurel-bound,
And pleased thee but so much as thou shouldst turn
And yield one sigh for those who still must mourn
On this harsh earth, one sigh for him whose line
Were too much graced in that one thought of thine.
1891
| Along the trail | |