THY COMING IN THE NIGHT

Awaking from some dream of thee, Unwillingly torn from a far And unremembered life with thee, I saw the forests of the night In her low hours unbar. Borne up Reluctant from the pool of sleep, I gazed on the uncolored dark, Till, like the bursting of the sky Of Hell,—behold, the wall of night Was of a sudden shattered, and I saw the black wings of darkness Uplifted by thy fair white hands; And o’er my bed, stealing unheard Through the mist of night, I felt thee bend. Ah, sweet, thy coming gave me then Long-lost and curious knowledge; Once more those magic sounds I knew, Of things first heard, which fall but to

The child upon his mother’s breast,— Those fading sounds beyond the world of now, Which, always to the agéd ear, Are but the footfalls striking fire Of a lone horseman of the night, Yet to the child are infinite. Hearing such sounds, then to my nostrils Came the odor of strange flowers, Far sweeter than violets born In the deep forests of the world. Drenched in thy scattered hair, which is Fairer than all the rain of God, O’er me I felt thy glory pour; And as a parchéd weed drinks in The miracle of rain, So from thy falling hair I drank, To give my blinded eyes the strength Of opening, and beholding thee.