Carol and Cadence New poems: MDCCCCII-MDCCCCVII: By John Payne |
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SOUL'S TWILIGHT. |
 | Carol and Cadence |  |
SOUL'S TWILIGHT.
The hour 'twixt sleep and wake,
The twilight of the soul it is, when all things take
Fashions and shapes
Other than those in this our world that are,
When Thought itself in webs of mystery drapes
And clothes itself in colours from some star
Borrowed, that in the Inane ethereal shines afar.
The twilight of the soul it is, when all things take
Fashions and shapes
Other than those in this our world that are,
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And clothes itself in colours from some star
Borrowed, that in the Inane ethereal shines afar.
An other-worldly haze
Then to the spirit cleaves and all the sense arrays
In webs of gold
Woven on the Dreamland's looms, of richer hue
Than was that tapestry of fable old,
Wherein each man his own desire might view
And through the fairy fields his heart's delight ensue.
Then to the spirit cleaves and all the sense arrays
In webs of gold
Woven on the Dreamland's looms, of richer hue
Than was that tapestry of fable old,
Wherein each man his own desire might view
And through the fairy fields his heart's delight ensue.
Then every common thing
Transfigured is; the thoughts are butterflies that wing
To other skies
Than those which canopy our earthly sphere
And soaring, fearless, on their far emprise,
Explore the worlds beyond the azure sheer,
In quest of heavenly gems and flowers that blow not here.
Transfigured is; the thoughts are butterflies that wing
To other skies
Than those which canopy our earthly sphere
And soaring, fearless, on their far emprise,
Explore the worlds beyond the azure sheer,
In quest of heavenly gems and flowers that blow not here.
Then is it that each word,
Each note, voice, windwaft, sound, by chance, awaking, heard,
A bird of Heaven
Becomes and from the Paradisal throng,
That choir in concert with the Planets Seven,
Borrowing the immortal cadence of their song,
With mirth and music fills our air of woe and wrong.
Each note, voice, windwaft, sound, by chance, awaking, heard,
A bird of Heaven
Becomes and from the Paradisal throng,
That choir in concert with the Planets Seven,
Borrowing the immortal cadence of their song,
With mirth and music fills our air of woe and wrong.
These tarry with us not;
Most, when from the dream-hour we waken, are forgot:
But such mere scraps
And snatches still as linger in the brain,
When their bright tide no more the sense enwraps,
Suffice to glorify Life's air inane,
As shreds of coloured glass the hues of Heaven retain.
Most, when from the dream-hour we waken, are forgot:
But such mere scraps
And snatches still as linger in the brain,
When their bright tide no more the sense enwraps,
Suffice to glorify Life's air inane,
As shreds of coloured glass the hues of Heaven retain.
| Carol and Cadence | |