G. Tucker Bispham

VISIONS are piled up on the morning skies!

With great cloud-bastion, arch of mist, and spire

Soaring to win the sun’s first golden fire,

The spacious mansions of the soul arise.

Grateful of heart, fresh-dedicated, wise,

I to my earthly task, at heaven’s hire,

Eagerly turn, and fear no more to tire,

Now such a hope is bright before mine eyes!

But toward the close of day, the scented air

Thrills to a murmur and a beat of wings;

Twilight is veiled; “Who stirs—can Love be there?”

No answer on his careless flight he flings:

But, was there not a summons of shy laughter?

I turn; I tremble; swift I follow after.