University of Virginia Library

I.

In the lonely twilight,
In the dewy twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the lonely twilight,
Twilight hushed and dim,
Stand I dreaming of a summer
And a brooklet's dimpled brim;
And I hear a silver laughter
Rippling up the sultry air,
And I see a blithe form dancing
In a dusk of darkling hair,
And I feel the cool leaves flout me,
And a storm of flowers about me,
Flung forth by that tiny hand;—
Well I know that little dancer
On the narrow marge of sand,
And those dimples, and that laughter,
And that tiny faëry hand,
And I murmur out “My sister—
O my sister!” where I stand;—
But no answer from the twilight,
From the dusk and dewy twilight,
Save the moan of far-off waves,—
Nothing but a mourner listening
By two green and grassy graves,
Nothing but a single mourner
And two green and grassy graves!

II.

In the lonely twilight,
In the dewy twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the sobbing twilight,
Twilight wet and blear,
Stand I dreaming of a winter—
Winter icy-stark and drear;
And I lie amid the shadows
Of a pallid, noiseless room,
And I see my younger brothers
Streaming stormy through the gloom,
And wild eyes are gleaming on me
In a lurid thunder-race,
And the wind amid the curtains
Dashes horrors in my face,—
Goblin-features dimly seen,
Faces seamed, and gaunt, and lean,
Flickering in a ghastly sheen
In fever, round my head;
When, behold! a gliding footstep
Rustles softly towards my bed,
And I feel the milky coolness
Of a white and loving hand;—
Well I know that gliding footstep,
And that influence dewy-bland,
And that shower of balmy kisses,
And the pressure of that hand!
And I stammer out “My mother—
O my mother!” where I stand;—
But no answer from the twilight,
From the wet and sobbing twilight,
Save the plash of distant waves,—
Nothing but a mourner weeping
By two green and silent graves,
Nothing but a single mourner
And two green and silent graves!

III.

In the lonely twilight,
In the dewy twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the hovering twilight,
Twilight of the summer prime,
Stand I dreaming of an evening
Of the holy olden time;
And I see two figures kneeling
In the moonlight of a room,
With their faces leaning upward
Through the rich and mellow gloom;
One is listening,—one is praying
With a heaven-appealing hand;—
Well I know the low voice speaking
Of the bright and better land,
And the meek and silent listener,
And the heaven appealing hand!
And I murmur out “My mother
And my sister!” where I stand;—
But no answer from the twilight,
From the hovering summer twilight,
Save the sob of wakeful waves,—
Nothing but a mourner standing
By two dim and dusky graves,
Nothing but a single mourner
And two dim and dusky graves!

IV.

In the lonely twilight,
In the dewy twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the bleaching twilight,
Twilight of the crisping rime,
Stand I dreaming of a golden,
Warbling, flower-flushed summer-time;
And I see a young form gliding
Down among the shadowy trees,
Faint and languid, in the languor
Of the odorous summer-breeze,
Faint amid the breathing blossoms,
And the sultry hum of bees;
And I see her in the evening
Sinking spent upon her chair,
And I mark the patient tremble
Of the hand within her hair:—
Comes an angel down unto her
In the silence of the night,
And he whispers low, “My daughter,
Forth with me into the light!
Come unto the better country,
Where they pant no more for breath,—
Past the stark but sleepy terrors
In the windy halls of Death,—
Down the dark and leaden pathway
Dug of old by ancient sin.
Lo! the Master's wedding-garment;
Thou shalt surely enter in!”
And she takes the wedding-garment
Underneath the solemn stars,
And the angel at the portal
Draws aside the gleaming bars,
For behold! her feet have wandered
Through the windy halls of Death,—
Past the stark and sleepy terrors
That aye pant and heave for breath,—
Down the dark and leaden pathway
Dug of old by ancient sin,
And the angel draws the gold bars,
And she meekly enters in!
But I cannot, cannot see her
In that glory-streaming land,
Nor the flushing of her features
As she wanders on the strand,
Nor the flutter of her garments,
Nor the waving of her hand,
Though I cry aloud—“My sister,
O my sister!” where I stand;—
Still no answer from the twilight,
From the bleak and rimy twilight,
Save the rush of roaring waves,—
Nothing but a mourner shivering
By two white and frozen graves,
Nothing but a shivering mourner
And two white and frozen graves!

V.

In the lonely twilight,
In the dewy twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the tender twilight,—
Swimming twilight rich and dim,—
Stand I dreaming of a white face,
And a whispered midnight hymn;
And I feel an arm about me,
Pressing with a trembling cling,
And I whisper words of cheering,
Murmuring of the coming Spring.
And I guide the fainting footsteps
Gently through the darkened rooms,
And I hear the laboured breathing
Through the hush of gathering glooms;
Comes the angel down unto her
With another at his side;
Well I know that milk-white angel,
With his silent, moonlike slide,
And the garments of the other
Meek-browed spirit at his side;
Come they shimmering down unto her
In the silence of the night,
And he whispers low, “My sister,
Forth with us into the light!
Come unto the better country,
Where they pant no more for breath,—
Past the blind and trembling terrors
In the gusty halls of Death,—
Down the drear and windy pathway
Dug of old by ancient sin.
Lo! the Master's wedding-garment;
Thou shalt surely enter in!”
And she also takes the garment
Underneath the solemn stars,
And the angel at the portal
Draws aside the gleaming bars;
For, behold! she too has wandered
Through the gusty halls of Death,
Past the blind and trembling terrors
That for ever gasp for breath,
Down the steep and windy pathway
Dug of old by ancient sin,
And the angel draws the gold-bars,
And she also enters in!
But I cannot hear their greetings
As they touch the shining strand,
For they render back no token
From the bright and better land—
Not the whimple of a garment,
Not the waving of a hand,
Though I moan aloud,—“My sister
And my mother!” where I stand—
Comes no answer from the twilight,
From the trembling, dewy twilight,
Save the gentle fall of waves,
Nothing but a mourner dreaming
By two soft and silent graves,
Nothing but a dreaming mourner
And two soft and silent graves!

VI.

In the deeper twilight,
In the later twilight,
Lie they softly by each other,
Hearing not,
Fearing not—
My sister and my mother!
And amid the deeper twilight,
Twilight hushed and steeped in dew,
Stand I dreaming of this old world,
And the ever-budding new,—
Of the many base and selfish,
And the bright and blessed few;
With strange visions, broken, starry,
Of the regions hid from view,
Glimpses of the golden splendours
Peopled with angelic wings,
Glistening glades, and sliding rivers,
Forest-haunts of milk-cool springs,
Faces moonlike with the gladness
Caught from looking unto Him,
Golden waves of music rushing
From rapt lyres of seraphim,
Billows of ecstatic worship,
Garments in their purple splendour
Many-folded, rolling dim,
Sparry glistenings from the gateways,
Glinting glories from the street,
And the ever-dimpling music
Of the white and dewy feet;
Then, of all the dreary future
Looming through the misty years,
Cheerless toil and thankless labour,
And the bitter cup of tears;
And I murmur, “Would, ye bright ones!
That this stormy race was o'er,
That my barque might drift up lightly
To your silver-rippled shore,
That this weary, weary struggle,
And this sordid strife were o'er,
That my life might float out softly
To your boundless evermore,
That the Master's wedding-garment
I might also safely win,
For alas! the world is weary,
And I too would enter in!”
When, behold! the tender moonlight
Swimming o'er the slumbering land,
And amid the floating splendour
Breathes a blessing holy, bland;
Sliding down the silken star-stairs
From the bright and better land,
And a peace is in the murmured
“Mother, sister,” where I stand;
Though no voice is in the moonlight,
In the sleek and sleepy moonlight,
Save the silver fall of waves,
Nothing but a silent mourner
By two deep and tender graves,
Yet a holier-hearted mourner
By two deep and tender graves,
Yes! a holier-hearted mourner,
And two deep and tender graves!