Charles Mair (1838–1927)

THE LIGHT rains grandly from the distant wood,

For in the wood the hermit sun is hid;

So night draws back her curtains ebon-hued,

To close them round some eastern pyramid.

The listless dew lies shining on the grass,

And o’er the streams the light darts quick away,

And through the fields the morning sunbeams pass,

Shot from the opening portals of the day.

Still upward mounts the tireless eremite,

While all the herald birds make loud acclaim,

Till o’er the woods he rounds upon our sight,

And lo! the western world is all aflame.

From out the landscape lying ’neath the sun

The last sea-smelling, cloud-like mists arise;

The smoky woods grow clear, and, one by one,

The meadow blossoms ope their winking eyes.

Now pleasèd Fancy starts with eager mien

A-tiptoe, looking o’er the silent fields,

Where all the land is fresh and calm and green,

And every flow’r its balmy incense yields.

And I, who am upon no business bent,

A simple stroller through these dewy ways,

Feel that all things are with my future blent,

Yet see them in the light of bygone days.