POE TRY.
THE MYSTIC.
THROUGH all the day our loads we bear, By common highways we must go, But when at night we rest, we hear The Voice again, whereby we know Through all the rush of hurrying feet One walked beside us in the street.
Then wide your spirit's casement fling, Your censer fill and lift it high! Behold, its flame is flickering Because a Wind is blowing nigh ; Look forth, and see a Shadow fall Upon the common roadside wall.
"Folly !" the world may say ; " We name Your vision empty phantasy.
What is the flicker of a flame, A wandering shadow passing by ? "
But we, we know Who went unwell Our censer and the world between.
O ye that walk this dusty place, Whose spirit in the clamour reels, Whose ears are filled with nothingness, Unmeaning drone of endless wheels, Come walk with us, and you shall learn Whose Hands their mighty axles turn.
'Tis but our nightly way we tread With dizzy brain and bruised feet, While clouds of dust all fiery red Sweep to the sunset up the street, Yet the gloom quivers. Hush ! and hark !
Who was it called us from the dark ?
LUCY. LYTTELTON.
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