As one who in the hush of twilight hears
The pausing pulse of Nature, when the Light
Commingles in the dim mysterious rite
Of Darkness with the mutual pledge of tears,
Till soft, anon, one timorous star appears,
Pale-budding as the earliest blossom white
That comes in Winter's livery bedight,
To hide the gifts of genial Spring she bears,-
So, unto me-what time the mysteries
Of consciousness and slumber weave a dream
And pause above it with abated breath,
Like intervals in music-lights arise,
Beyond prophetic Nature's farthest gleam,
That teach me half the mystery of Death.