THE SOUL PRISMATIC
Forlorn, as twilight saddens now the hills,
I gaze across the dim and lonely plain
And muse, till musing is at last a pain,
On all the voices of the countless rills,
On all the loveliness unseen that fills
The mountains—hidden beauty lost like rain
On wastes of the unalterable main;
Lost, as a music that the midnight stills.
God! for a heart to make it so mine own
That I would be as crystals that accept
Most marvelously the concealing ray;
Till on my page in splendor should be thrown
Such revelation as of hues that slept,
Unheeded, in the clarity of day!
64
