POETRY.
A SUMMER NIGHT.
Blindly the ghost-moths Back to that other Brush by our faces, Where fond pieties Pass in the gloom. Sheltered my youth IN the dusk garden Hushed are all voices, Save for the night-jar's Querulous moan.
Veiled are the lustrous Crimsons and purples, Glory of colour, Wonder of form.
Spires of the larch are Plumed as with cypress, Green of the orchard Darkens to yew.
But through the dimness, Viewless and fragrant Souls of the flowers Wander in air.
Spirits elusive, Fain would we stay them; Free of our capture Come they and go.
Warders of memory Are they, unsealing Many a long-shut Door of the past;
Weirds at whose magic Dead wood shall blossom, Wells of old sorrow, Flow with new tears. Breath of the jasmine! How hast thou borne me Far o'er the Time-stream's Shadowy flood !
Ah ! The sweet miracle Gone were the weary Burden of knowledge, Cumber of years.
Yea! for one heart-beat Mine were the newness, Mystery, gladness, Bloom of the world.
Swift, as a rain-washed Gleam on Helvellyn, Flashed the clear vision Faded once more ; Fair as the gleam, as the Mountain enduring, Bideth the dear hope Born of its light: How 'neath the sterner Flint of our manhood, How 'neath the gathering Dust of our age, Waiting what richer, Larger awaking, Slumbers the deathless . Heart of the child.
R. H. LAW.
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