POETRY.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 91, 15 September 1874, Page 3

POETRY.

TWILIGHT DREAMS. They come in the quiet twilight hour, When the weary day is done, And the quick light leaps from the glowing heaps Of wood, on the warm hearth-stone. When the household sounds hare died away, And the rooms are silent all, Save the clock's brief tick, and the sudden click Of the embers as they fall; They come, those dreams of the twilight hour, To me, with their noiseless tread, A tearful band, by the guiding hand Of a grave-eyed spirit led. There is no voice within the hall, No footstep on the floor, The children's laughter is hushed, there is No hand at the parlour door. Like fingers tapping eagerly Against the shuttered frame, Where the trailing rose its long branch throws, Beat the great drops of rain. But my heart heeds not the rustling leaves, Nor the rain-fall's fitful beat, Nor the wind's low sigh, as it hurries by On its pauseless path and fleet ; For now in the dusk, they gather round, The visions of the past, Arising slow, in the dim red glow, By the burning pine-brands cast. My brow is calmed as with the touch Of the angel's passing wing ; They breathe no word, yet my soul is stirred By the messages they bring. Some, in their grasp impalpable, Bear Eden-cultured flowers, That sprang in gloom, from the tearbathed tomb Of hope's long-buried hours. Some from the fount of memory, Lasting, and pure, and deep, Bring waters clear, though many a year Hath saddened their first fresh sweep ; And some in their hands of shadow bear, From the shrine of prayerful thought, A fragrance blest, to the stricken breast, With balm and healing fraught The night wears on, the hearth burns low, The dreams have passed away ; But heart and brow are strengthened now For the toil of coming day.