MORNING.
53
Hers are the gentle hands that tap at the dreamer's window,
Chasing the shapes away that people his land of shadows,
While with a voice that falls like the far-off ripple of fountains
Heard through the summer trees, thus does she sing beside him:
"Wake! for the darkness flies; wake! for the world is waiting;
Life is begun anew with all its promise before you;
Thine are the golden hours that fill the hand of the Present.
Wake ere the moments pass, and gathering strength from prayer,
Light on the altar of life a lamp that shall brighten the future!"
Chasing the shapes away that people his land of shadows,
While with a voice that falls like the far-off ripple of fountains
Heard through the summer trees, thus does she sing beside him:
"Wake! for the darkness flies; wake! for the world is waiting;
Life is begun anew with all its promise before you;
Thine are the golden hours that fill the hand of the Present.
Wake ere the moments pass, and gathering strength from prayer,
Light on the altar of life a lamp that shall brighten the future!"
Hers are the rosy lips that bend by the sick man's pillow,
Cooling with lingering breath the flush on the heated forehead,
Waking the smile of hope that fled in the dark night-watches,
And kissing the restless eyes like touch of a swift-winged blessing.
Cooling with lingering breath the flush on the heated forehead,
Waking the smile of hope that fled in the dark night-watches,
And kissing the restless eyes like touch of a swift-winged blessing.
