Green tracery of fern to rust...

By Theodore Harding Rand

Green tracery of fern to rust;

The shouldering hills to level dust,—

This is the law of rhythmic nature,

The ebb and flow of its may and must.

I hear the wind-harp's wilding tones

Sobbing a requiem o'er their bones;

“The golden-globëd skies shall perish,”

The harper harps as he wails and moans.

Wild heart, within thy ruby vault

Is flashed a purpose, free of fault

From great High Priest's own breast-plate splendid,—

E'en deathless life out of death's assault.