BORN OF THE SPIRIT.
115
If the tiniest bird had flown,
Its flight had a shadow thrown
On lawn and rill;
Its flight had a shadow thrown
On lawn and rill;
But neither a sound nor sight
Disturbed the calm or the light
Of the noontide air;
Yet the friend I loved was as far
As a ghostly moon or star,
From my call and care.
Disturbed the calm or the light
Of the noontide air;
Yet the friend I loved was as far
As a ghostly moon or star,
From my call and care.
Dead, with her hand in mine!
Dead, in the golden shine
Of the autumn day!
Dead, and no note in heaven,
Nor a gleam of white wings given,
To mark her way!
Dead, in the golden shine
Of the autumn day!
Dead, and no note in heaven,
Nor a gleam of white wings given,
To mark her way!
And my heart went up in the cry,
"How did the swift soul fly?
What life inherit?" . . .
Then the wind blew sweet and was gone . . .
And a voice said, "So is one
Born of the Spirit."
"How did the swift soul fly?
What life inherit?" . . .
Then the wind blew sweet and was gone . . .
And a voice said, "So is one
Born of the Spirit."