351. Resurrection

AS the slow Evening gather’d in her grey,

And one clear star its ancient pathway trod—

With long, low cadences of dear delay

The lark, descending, left his song with God!

And Peace came, like a reverential soul,

With far-off tremors of a further world,

And thro’ the silver mist of twilight stole

Unto the heart of all. And upward curl’d

The April moon, resurgent of the sun,

To the blue dusk of the exalted dome

Of heav’n; and the white wind-flowers, one by one,

Shook in light slumber on their hilly home.

It was so sweet to stoop and feel around!

Each blade of grass a breathing lyre of life

Whereon the wind, in arias of sound,

Told subtle music; how the great World, rife

With scent of violet, and primrose-strewn,

Strain’d tender fingers from each dewy sod

To the dear Christ of chrysalis and moon—

And, dusk descending, left her soul with God!