Poems (Kennedy)/Visions
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VISIONS
I READ the wonder-pages of the world
And see across them slowly go
The marshalled hosts of long-lost yester-years,
Their flag afloat or trailing low.
The poet or historian spins for me
Full many a tale of truth and grace,
But—'twixt my eyes and their clear-printed page
There steals the vision of your face.
And see across them slowly go
The marshalled hosts of long-lost yester-years,
Their flag afloat or trailing low.
The poet or historian spins for me
Full many a tale of truth and grace,
But—'twixt my eyes and their clear-printed page
There steals the vision of your face.
For me a singer opens wide the realm
Where mystic shapes of music throng,
And all the glories of celestial choirs
Drift by me on enchanted song.
And then—I cannot tell you how or why—
The music dies of its own choice
And in the place of pealing organ notes,
Heart all a-throb, I hear your voice.
Where mystic shapes of music throng,
And all the glories of celestial choirs
Drift by me on enchanted song.
And then—I cannot tell you how or why—
The music dies of its own choice
And in the place of pealing organ notes,
Heart all a-throb, I hear your voice.
Through dim-lit galleries I softly move
And see the scenes some master brush
Has made to live again, and on my soul
There falls a sweet and solemn hush;
For though, each canvas holds a dream inspired
That lures me with artistic wile,
It fades to nothingness, and in its place
I catch the radiance of your smile.
And see the scenes some master brush
Has made to live again, and on my soul
There falls a sweet and solemn hush;
For though, each canvas holds a dream inspired
That lures me with artistic wile,
It fades to nothingness, and in its place
I catch the radiance of your smile.