BLANCHE BISHOP

IN a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through, She comes, when the tremulous morning is new, The bride o' the sun; Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads, Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds, The bride o' the sun. There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side, But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride, The bride o' the sun. There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least, When open the light-shedding doors of the East To the bride o' the sun. Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold, And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold, On the bride o' the sun;— Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame, Unfolding to flower o'er all her fair frame, Sweet bride o' the sun. O glorious bridal of fire and earth! O ancient of miracles! new as at birth Of the bride o' the sun. All creation doth wear a more rapturous face, For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space, Ever bride o' the sun.

WHEN tree and bush are comfortless, And fields are piteous bare, A garden blooms upon my hearth, And it is summer there. From the gray log's quiescent length Burst the bright flowers of flame,— Like the far flashings of the stars, Too rare for earthly name. Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt, Their petals softly blow; Now clear as water in the sun, When the blue sky lies below. And daintily they toss and sway To the breath of soundless airs,— The memories of wooing winds That made the forest theirs. O for the secret that the sun Shares with the burning tree! Elusive sweet as the witching flow Of water to the sea. In thought I grasp the mystic word, And lo! it hath no form. I only know 'tis dark without, And here 'tis light and warm.

COME, happy morn, serene and fair, With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer; Come with thy faintly smiling eyes, And brow whereon majestic rise Suns of eternal morn. Come, happy morn, for see and hark! A world lies waiting in the dark, With throbbing heart and straining gaze, To catch thy first up-springing rays, O, happy, happy morn! The whispering stars will see it first, From star to star the tidings burst— Their paling faces earthward bowed, While men and angels worship loud The Christ who is the Morn.